


Slow Burn

by thekingofcarrotflowers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Breakfast in Bed, Budding Love, Canonical Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Druffalo Stew is the worst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exchanging of GIfts, Feelings, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Food, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Public Display of Affection, Sharing A Tent, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spicy Food, The Best Way to Someone's Heart is Through Their Stomach, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3596991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekingofcarrotflowers/pseuds/thekingofcarrotflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian and Bull bond over their shared love of spicy foods. A collection of moments in which the pair's relationship grows while sharing food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt on the Kink Meme! I admit, I've strayed a little bit (there's no North/South food wars, but more the slow build of the duo through their shared loved of spicy food) I'm not sure how long this will be -- I have a handful of chapters written already, but plan on adding a lot more!:
> 
> "I mean, they both come from the North, right? They can adjust to the bland souther cuisine if they must (Dorian with more complaining than Bull but still), but there's no need to with the Inquisition's extensive contacts in the North, so they began treating themselves: cooking for themselves in Skyhold/spicying up their food in camps, trading recipes, stealing bites from each other's plates, feeding each other, and so forth. The gang is terrified at the things they put in their mouth and tries to set them straight. Dorian and Bull put up a resistance. North/South food war ensues.  
> (Meanwhile, Dorian and Bull, quite literally, fall in love while stirring pots.)"
> 
> Enjoy~

Dorian is hurrying from the kitchens as Bull goes to enter, the mage having a plate of something pulled close against his chest like its the most precious thing in the mage’s possession. The Bull is on his way to speak with the cook about the case of pastries from Val Royeaux that he convinced her to order. His eyes flicker down to the container in Dorian’s hands, which is covered, but the smell still hits his nose. It’s spicy, slightly burning, filling his nose and making it tingle gently. Bull growls slightly at the smell. Everything in Fereldan seems so one-note and mild. He misses the kick and spice the food from up-north brings with it, and vaguely remembers Dorian complaining about it as well. Really, thought, what _doesn’t_ the ‘Vint complain about?

“What’s that?” Bull asks, still eying the pot.

Dorian’s eyes narrow, maneuvering so the food is no longer between he and Bull like the man might snatch it from his hands, “It’s spicy. You wouldn’t like it.”

Bull snorts, “Don’t think I can handle a little heat?”

Briefly, Dorian looks flustered, before his mustache quirks and gives away the small smile he’s fighting against. It’s a pleasant surprise to find someone who shares a similar palette, even if it’s this brute. With a long finger, he prods at Bull’s gut, “I assumed you were enjoying the Fereldan cuisine by the way you gobble it down. It does nothing for your figure.” Dorian notices that Bull is mostly hard muscles and sturdy flesh as he pokes at the man, but is unwavering in his insults.

“Warriors wielding weapons twice as heavy as little mages need to eat. A lot. I can’t be too picky,” Bull shrugs, smirking slightly. He takes another deep inhale of the smell wafting up from Dorian’s hands. It’s somewhat sweet, but satisfyingly spicy. It’s been ages since he’s gotten something with real heat in it. It’s all cream and butter and sugar down here, which he isn’t entirely opposed to, but sometimes his food needs a kick to it.

Dorian studies the qunari for a long moment. Thinking about how close their respective countries are, he isn’t too surprised their cuisine and tastes might have bleed into each other. It’s not something he ever put too much thought into before this moment, qunari cuisine. The one thing he had picked up from listening to the Bull’s tales is that there’s rarely leftovers because of the efficiency of the Qun, even in cooking, and it seems like a loss not to have food left from the night before to indulge on as a midnight snack.

“ _Fine_ , here,” Dorian softens, pulling the top off the bowl. Inside, there’s chicken blackened and burned slightly and a generous helping of noodles, all smothered in some sort of sauce Bull doesn’t recognize. It’s thick and golden-brown, the charred meat swimming in it. Bull can’t help but smiling a little, both at the food and the fact that Dorian is acting all bent out of shape over offering him some, “Try it.”

Bull goes to rake a clawed finger through the pot to taste it, before Dorian smacks his hand. It smarts, and Bull pulls back slightly.

“Get a spoon, you heathen,” Dorian hisses, looking entirely disgusted. He eyes Bull disapprovingly, “Maker knows where your claws have been, and I don’t want whatever is under your nails _growing_ in my food.”

“If anything can grow in it, it isn’t hot enough,” Bull quips, strolling into the kitchen and returning with a large mixing spoon. If he gets to try it, he might as well take as much as possible. He drags the spoon through the food, getting a chunk of chicken and a few thick strands of noodles. He’s surprised that his mouth is watering - the lack of control for the Ben-Hassrath is slightly concerning, but the prospect of good food is enough to let it slide.

It’s equal measures sweet and spicy on his tongue. He studies the notes that hits his tongue, some sort of nut mixed with an array of spices along with brown sugar. Smacking his lips, he enjoys the warmth that spreads across his tongue.

“So?” Dorian says, expectantly. There’s a brightness in his eyes and he looks genuinely interested, for once.

“Could be spicier,” Iron Bull shrugs slightly, the heat feeling stronger after living off of bland flavors for months, but preferring if his foot left his eyes watering and nose running, if possible. Still, he goes in for another spoonful.

“Ah ah ah,” Dorian pulls away, scrunching up his nose, “No double dipping. And you should be _grateful_ it has any sort of bite to it. It was like pulling teeth, to convince the cook to even consider ordering garlic. It’s not as if it’s used in some blood magic ritual or something…”

Bull grinned. Dorian had the right idea, to bribe the cook into bringing spices into Skyhold. He momentarily regrets wasting his favor on pastries, but next time he’ll be sure to request something more worthwhile.

 

 

 

 


	2. Calefaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bull returns a favor to Dorian.

The Inquisitor and their forces are moving through Crestwood, tying up lose ends from when they lifted the darkness from the land months ago. It’s still unyieldingly damp and wet, showers moving in and out of the area steadily, but there’s often sunshine and a newfound lightness to the area. Dorian’s still complaining, of course, griping about another ruined pair of boots, about the cold, about the mud stains on the tail of his skirt-

“It’s not a skirt!” Dorian hissed at Bull, looking thoroughly offended as he huffed and crossed his arms.

“You trip on that bustling whatever, don’t come crying to me,” Iron Bull grinned wickedly.

Dorian growled in reply, “It’s a _robe_.”

“Uh huh,” Bull nodded appeasingly, the smile still on his face. Dorian rolled his eyes dramatically, before looking away. The qunari still watched Dorian out of the corner of his eye, amused by the man and finding himself growing more and more fond of him by the day. When he wasn’t whining and complaining, they had interesting and intelligent conversations, and he could tell that Dorian cared under all that arrogance and decoration. More than once, Dorian had apologized for his assumptions and misunderstandings of other’s cultures, sounding entirely genuine and somewhat guilty. He asked questions to delve farther when allowed, trying to understand the things that weren’t in the endless amounts of books he read. Lately, their conversations somehow ended up on food and what they missed from their homelands.

As they settled into camp for the night, Dorian found something else to rant about: “Druffalo stew _again_ , wonderful.” He plopped down on the log next to Bull, immediately warming himself by the fire, “It’s horrid, really. It’s _tough_ and _tasteless_ and _dry_ …”

“Not your kind of meat, Dorian?” Sera teased with a toothy grin, earning a snort from the Bull and a glower from Dorian. She cackled loudly, slapping her leg. It’d been enough time since Dorian’s meeting with his father and the ensuing gossip about it spreading like wildfire for the rest of the party to gently tease Dorian about it without the mage becoming a tangle of emotions again.

“Besides, we spent a whole _day_ saving that darned druffalo from the wolves in the Hinterlands and I can’t help but think of his ugly, slobbering face as I eat his long lost cousin,” Dorian continued, still shooting Sera a look to dare her to talk again.

“It’s not so bad,” Bull shrugged, glancing towards the pot where the stew was brewing.

“Not so bad?” Dorian shrilled, throwing up his hands, “And you were the one to criticize the dish I worked so hard to convince the cook the make for not having enough _kick_ , yet you’re here praising the _gristle_ that is druffalo meat.”

Bull grinned, enjoying how easy it was to ruffle Dorian's feathers, “Well, it _could_ have used a bit more heat.”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Dorian wagged a finger at the man.

The Inquisitor shook their head at the pair, hearing the same argument for the third time this trip, “I’m sure Josephine could order more spices and whatnot. Our forces and contacts are expanding, and I don’t think a few containers of spices will hurt.”

Dorian’s eyes lit up, “Truly?” Besides the dish from the cook, Bull knew that Dorian requested little from the Inquisition. He was here to serve, and despite all his complaining and the spoiled brat that sometimes surfaced, he was adapting quite well to roughing it. Bull gave Dorian a quick glance, thinking about what the man might have went through when he traveled south, knowing that _this_ was probably far from roughing it in actuality. He’d probably suffered through worse than dry druffalo meat, but now he had the luxury to complain about it.

Shrugging, the Herald continued: “Viv requests expensive wine by the caseload, for her visiting politicians and every minor nobility. I don’t think some ginger or lemongrass will make a difference.”

Dorian broke into a pleased grin, lacking any arrogance or pride. It was a rare sight from the mage, who buried his true emotions deep beneath layers of ego and insecurity. He easy for Bull to read, sure, but he convinced the others for most part. He knew it must have come from years of practice and pain to attain that kind of control, frowning slightly as he recalled his own intensive, often painful, training to become a Ben-Hassrath. It warmed the Bull’s heart to see some genuine happiness out of the man for a change.

They ate the druffalo stew together, Dorian relaxing and not complaining about the cuisine again. Bull told a story about giant baiting with his Chargers, and he noticed Dorian watching him intently. They laughed over the ridiculous of it all, and Dorian gave easy praise to Bull and his men, patting Bull gently on the arm. The mage was in a rare mood after the conversation with the Herald, and it made the warmth grow in Bull’s chest.

“Hey, Dorian,” Bull said as the mage moved to retire, the Inquisitor and Sera having gone to bed some time ago.

“Hm?”

“I almost forgot. I have something for you,” Bull stood.

“For me?” Dorian sounded completely caught off-guard, as if no one had ever given him a gift before. He struggled to find some sort of jest but instead left the question to hang in the air, his mind clamoring with any possible idea as to what in the Void the Bull would have to give him.

“Yeah. Just wait a minute.”

Bull retreated to the tents, grabbing a box from his things. When he heard Dorian would be coming along on this trip, he made sure to bring his latest spoils of bribing the cook with him. Dorian was still standing by the fire, looking somewhat uncomfortable as he twirled his mustache, confused and speculating with a growing amount of trepidation.

“Thought I should repay you for sharing your meal with me before,” Bull explained. The box in his hands was dark and small, a gold ribbon loosely tied around it.

“I hardly _shared_ my meal with you,” Dorian said, looking away, a flicker of guilt in his face, “I barely let you take a bite.”

Bull shrugged, a momentous gesture for his massive shoulders, “Still, figured I’d return the favor.” He held out the box to Dorian, who stared at it for a moment before hesitantly taking it. His long fingers pulled at the gold ribbon, making it come undone and fall to the ground. When he popped off the lid, he looked down with bewilderment at the half-eaten box of chocolates in his hand.

“Chocolates?” he asked, looking up at the Bull, then back down at the remaining candies. If anything, he was more confused than before. Chocolates and candies were normally something exchanged between close friends or lovers, not a ‘Vint and savage who _somehow_ ended up fighting on the same team.

“Yeah, ordered them instead of pastries this time. Got a bit of chili in ‘em.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

With delicate fingers, Dorian plucked one from the box. Carefully, he bit it in half. The hard shell of the piece broke away into a soft and rich filling, creamy bitterness of the chocolate filling his mouth. A moment later, the heat hit his lips, a small but welcome burn. It made his lips tingle gently and added a deeper flavor to the chocolate. Eyes brightening, he popped the remaining half in his mouth, chewing happily.

“So?” Bull smirked, mirroring Dorian’s expectant question last time they shared food.

“It’s … quite good,” Dorian admits, giving Bull a small and grateful smile. Something tugged at Bull’s heart at the sight before it faded quickly as he shoved the box back at Bull, “Here.”

“The rest are for you,” Bull insisted, hands still at his sides.

“No, I couldn’t,” Dorian’s not making eye contact, looking past Bull instead. He gave the box a shake in his insistence that the Bull took them back, “They’re yours.”

“Dorian.”

“Festis bei umo canavarum,” Dorian grumbled, drawing the box back to his chest, “Fine, have it your way.” He quickly turned on heel, retreating back to his own tent. Bull watched him go, shaking his head slightly and letting out a deep sigh.

 


	3. The Spice of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull returns from an excursion with the Inquisitor & Dorian smuggles spices into the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly a filler chapter to show a bit of their developing friendship! :)

It’s been a long week out with the Inquisitor, the Fallow Mire proving to be as tiresome as usual, and Solas and Cole only succeeded in adding to the creepy effect. Sure, the kid was rather endearing and Bull had grown grudgingly fond on him, but their strange tangents and murmurs didn’t help ease the Bull’s worries about demons and spirits. The Inquisitor seemed as nervous about the pairing as he did, shooting him anxious glances as Solas and Cole cryptically discussed love and pain. He had only shaken his head, mumbled something about the Herald being the one to choose this sorry group in the first place. 

Now, Bull was hurrying across the courtyard in an effort to put some space between Cole and Solas’ continued conversation. It was about the antics Cole was pulling to help fix people around Skyhold, something more straightforward than before, but Bull had heard enough from the pair for a lifetime. All he wanted was a tankard of something strong and a good meal. When the Bull burst through the front door of the tavern, which was buzzing drunkenly already, a chorus of cheers went up at seeing his return. He beamed at his men, the rowdy lot who whooped and clapped at seeing their leader return. His seat was empty, as he correctly guessed it always was when he was away. Then, his eyes fell at Dorian, sitting fairly comfortably with the Chargers, half-turned in his seat so he could see the Bull, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. A strange thing happened in the Iron Bull’s chest then, a hitch of his breath he couldn’t quite help, and then it was gone. He plopped down across from Dorian, the chair groaning slightly beneath him, and was welcomed by another chorus of yelled greetings.

“You reek,” Dorian hissed out, crinkling his nose as he leaned back in his chair. Bull had bathed in a number of rivers on the return to Skyhold in an attempt to get the smell of the bog off on him, but he wasn’t surprised the picky ‘Vint could still pick up on the smell.

Bull grinned, “Hello to you, too. No celebrations about my return from you?”

Dorian waved his hand at him, dismissing the thought, “As if we could ever doubt that our fearless Bull would fail to return from some quagmire.” 

Rocky slid a full tankard in front of the Bull, who hooted his thanks before downing it in a few long gulps. He could feel Dorian’s eyes on him as his throat bobbed, but when he lowered it, the man glanced away. With an ‘ Ah’  of satisfaction, Bull wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, studying Dorian.

“Any good tales, Chief?” Krem asked, and the others began to jab at Bull, wanting to hear anything interesting that happened in the mire.

With a sly grin, Bull launched into a tale of an apostate that they found in the deepest recesses of the bog. He painted a detailed picture of the hoards of demons the man had summoned, a despair demon leeching the drive from them with its icy cries, fear demons fogging their minds with terrors and screams. Dorian found himself enthralled by the tale, watching as Bull’s eye lit up as he told the story, as he gestured widely as if he was still wielding his ax. With the final blow, he hit his fist against the table, making the din of the tavern die down for a brief second before it resumed its previous volume. The patrons were used to the ruckus that was the Chargers and often adapted accordingly.

“You and Varric should get together, have a Skyhold story hour,” Dorian quipped flippantly, but his smile was warm. Their eyes met for a moment before Bull was chatting enthusiastically with his men again, laughing loudly. 

A few stories later, a barmaid set a plate of food in front of Dorian. As the smell of fresh biscuits and warm gravy hit Bull’s nostrils, his gaze snapped to the plate of food as he remembered how hungry he was. It had been all dried bread and hard cheese and impossibly tough jerky on their trip, which always left Bull feeling dissatisfied. The warrior always claimed to fight better on a full stomach, and such a comfort seemed to be few and far-between during the Inquisitor’s outings. Dorian was scrutinizing his meal with a slight frown when Bull’s stomach rumbled, loud enough for the mage to hear over the drunken masses around them.

Dorian laughed in response, “Forwent both bathing and dining in favor of drinking.”

“Yeah, well…” Bull grumbled, scratching at his jawline with mild embarrassment. Those few times his body betrayed him, giving himself away, were rare, and he was surprised a bit of bread smothered in gravy had bested him. As if in response, his stomach grumbled a second time as Dorian eyed him carefully. 

“You should be grateful I am such a kind man,” Dorian sighed dramatically, nudging the plate across the table. For a moment, Bull blinked over at him in confusion, taken back by the gesture. Dorian tried hard to put on a front of being aloof and uncaring, but these small gestures from the man proved that a very different man lay beneath the mask. Finally, Bull snorted: 

“I can’t take your food.”

“I can always order more. Besides, how can I enjoy it thoroughly when I can barely hear my own thoughts over your stomach?” Dorian insisted with a playful grin, nudging the plate even closer to the Bull. The Chargers had taken notice of the exchange, shooting the pair quick glances and then looking between themselves with mild curiosity and amusement. 

“Fine,” Bull grunted, picking up the silverware that always felt too small for his massive hands.

“A moment,” Dorian held up one finger, rifling around in the cloak draped on the back of his chair, “Here.”

The man slid containers of spices and herbs toward the Bull, all neatly labeled in loopy handwriting — turmeric, cardamom, cloves. Bull examined them for a moment before grabbing them, popping off the caps to take a long whiff. They tickled his nose pleasantly, almost making him sneeze, but instead making him sigh nostalgically. It’d been a long time since he’d smelled these spices like this, fairly fresh and pungent. It took him back to bustling shops up north with their brightly colored clothing, the busy chatter of merchants, the dancers under a cracked bell. He gave the mage a wide grin, grateful for the spices as well as the feelings they brought with them. 

“The Altus has been smuggling those spices into the tavern lately,” Krem stated, having paid close attention to the men. He was as pleased as Bull was to have some spices available, remembering home cooked meals from his mother, spices wafting throughout the house as food simmered over a fire, his family around a rickety kitchen table trying to make the best of their lives. He’d managed to get Dorian to share on a few occasions during Bull’s absence, though Dorian had seemed particularly possessive of the spices, “Cabot and his cook aren’t too happy with it, though.”

Dorian rolled his eyes again, “As soon as they start serving halfway decent food, I will refrain from bringing my  contraband  into the tavern.”

Bull grinned and chuckled at the man, “Well, you’re certainly starting to add some spice to my life.” He winked for emphasis on his horrible joke, and the whole table let out a weary groan. 

“On second though…” Dorian jested, making a show of reaching across the table for his spices, which Bull hurriedly snatched out a reach. 


	4. A Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian makes a proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a soft spot for this chapter because I love hot & sour soup and because it was one of the first bits of the fic I came up with??

“I have a proposition,” Dorian announced as he sits across the Bull, leaning forward like he’s divulging a great secret. The tavern is uncommonly quiet this evening, many soldiers still out on a survey of the Hinterlands and the Chargers having been roped into a game of Wicked Grace with Varric.

Iron Bull smirks slowly, raising an eyebrow, “You’ve decided to give into temptation.”

Eyes narrowing only slightly and sitting up straighter to cross his arms, the mage continues: “Since we both know how rubbish all the food in the South is - and we both often get dragged along with the Inquisitor’s do-gooding - I suggest we team up against the atrocity that is Fereldan cooking and create a more worthwhile menu for our dining pleasure.”

Bull nods slightly, the idea sounding surprisingly appealing. He licks his lips at the idea of more of that spicy peanut sauce Dorian made, or more imported chili chocolates.

“You know how to cook?” Bull looks Dorian up and down, somewhat skeptical, “You always seem to be trying to convince the cook to make your concoctions, or just sneak heaps of spices into whatever they make.”

“Bull, I am offended!” Dorian clutches at his chest with mock hurt, eyebrows shooting up, a smile tugging at his lips, “I must admit, I am not the most skilled chef, but having fled home and lived on the road for some time… you pick up a thing or two. Besides, I’m sure someone of my intellect could easily expand their knowledge. I’ve been researching-”

That part wasn’t surprising in the least. Dorian tried to compensate for his lack of worldliness by devouring every book he could, pushing himself to know more. Bull smiles somewhat fondly, and Dorian tries not to notice, tries not to feel the flutter in his chest that is becoming more and more expected.

“Researching cuisine, looking up recipes, inspecting the trade routes, mapping out-”

“You’re taking this pretty seriously,” Bull interrupts, scratching at the underside of his chin as he studies Dorian. The man sure is going to great lengths to get some spices imported in.

“I take everything seriously. Especially good food,” Dorian answers, arms finally uncrossing and instead lightly holding onto the edge of the table as he leans forward. A sly grin creeps onto his face, “After selling all my personal possessions to scrounge up some stale bread and cheese, I decided I’d rather no have to put up with mediocre food again… Though living at Skyhold has made that a difficult promise to uphold. Honestly… It’s a relief to find someone else who shares my refined palette.”

Bull knows that Dorian is downplaying what he had to put up with in order to flee from Tevinter. Though Dorian didn’t have to risk life and limb to cross the boarder or risk being dragged into slavery for his decision like Krem, Bull knew Dorian had no one to watch his back as he journeyed south. Those within the Inquisition who didn’t know the mage treated him with enough disrespect and malice — and Dorian acted like it was so normal and expected, barely flinching at the worst of it — that the Bull was sure he dealt with plenty on the road. It made his heart clench slightly, to think of the mage going without food or shelter, scrounging for the bare necessities, people spitting insults at the lost man. Bull’s grateful that Dorian now has a small group of people at his side, to make sure that doesn’t happen again.

“Are you admitting we have more in common than you thought?”

“I would _never_ ,” but Dorian’s smile has softened slightly.

“I’m in,” Bull decides. He enjoys the brief look of pure joy that flashes on Dorian’s face before he reigns his reaction to smug approval, but Bull has the gleam burned into his memory already.

“Splendid,” Dorian murmurs, cogs in his head beginning to work as his plans is set into motion.

~~~

This time, as the Herald’s group moves across the Exhalted Plains, clearing out Demons and Freemen, Dorian complains minimally. There’s the brief mention of the cold, of course, but nothing substantial. Bull would go as far as calling Dorian giddy, which was almost vaguely concerning. His worries were somewhat lifted when the mage occasionally shot Bull a mischievous look, Bull guessing one of his spices made way to Skyhold before their departure for the mission.

“Did you shag someone or something?” Sera growls as the man smiles, blood splattered across his robes and face after a messy fight. He’s fixing his mustache and hasn’t complained about the stains even once.

“I’m not sure anyone in Skyhold would touch me with a ten foot pole. Tevinter magister and all that,” Dorian smiles dryly in reply, wiping more blood off his long fingers and onto his robes. There’s something entirely appealing to Bull in the way the man keeps his cool in conflict, chuckles in battle after a spectacular kill, isn’t above getting down and dirty in a fight. It’s not something he had expected from the prim and proper mage at first, though he was happy to find that Dorian was full of surprises.

“But yer not! Don’t even got the laugh down,” Sera insists, giving her own try at her most sinister laugh, before crinkling her nose. Somehow, the city elf and the Altus have grown close. They tease and talk, poking fun of the other’s cultures yet never getting offended, and they work together smoothly in battle. Dorian flicks his wrist to set Sera’s arrows on fire midair before they burrow in an armored brute, or Sera will position traps around the mage for when the unfortunate foe draws near.

“Shush. Don’t let that get out or the whole facade will come crashing down. I rather like the way they scurry and cower when I stroll the courtyard,” Dorian teases, putting a blood-stained finger to his lips and winking. Sera grins at him, jabbing him in the arm, before scurrying out of his reach. He swears teasingly, eyes gleaming happily and Bull’s heart does a strange flip.

 

It’s dark when they arrive back at camp, two rifts and the western ramparts under their belts. They’re all sore and bloody, Bull’s knee popping painfully even with the brace on. Dorian’s trailing behind the Inquisitor and Sera, but not quite walking with Bull, in a failed attempt to keep an eye on the aching Bull without being too obvious.

“Nice work with the magic back there, Dorian,” Bull huffs as they climb up the last hill before their camp. He means it, impressed by Dorian’s vigor and acrobatics in the fight. Nothing he does is without a healthy dose of flair, “You’re pretty good at blowing guys up.”

“It’s significantly more impressive than hitting them with a sharp piece of metal,” Dorian sniffs, though there isn’t any real heat there. He’s grateful for the Bull, for the blows that he takes for all of them, for the life-ending swings of the blade he can get in against the toughest of enemies.

“Hey, whoa, let’s not get crazy,” Bull chuckles, eye twinkling in amusement. Dorian glances over his shoulder and smiles at the man. It’s one of those rare, true smiles that the Altus shoots Bull when his guard his down. A battered and limping qunari must not seem like much of a threat, Bull thinks idly.

Bull settles down next to the fire, stretching out his leg in front of himself, letting out a soft groan as the joints shift. Pulling his weapon from his back, he cleans some of the grime off. Since Viv gave him a stern talking to about the appearance of his axe, he’s fallen into the habit of cleaning it once he returns to camp. He’s not looking to get scolded by the woman again, knowing he could get his ass handed to him by any of the mages in the Herald’s inner circle.

“I’ll return promptly,” Dorian announces to the group as a whole, hurrying away to his tent.

The officers left at camp are already preparing their meal, druffalo stew — again. Bull’s hungry enough that it seems appealing, though he lets out a sigh as he realizes he’s lost track of how often stew is on the menu. He hopes that Dorian returns with ginger or cayenne or _something_ to give it a bit of flavor. The Requisitions Officer has already ladled out their bowls of the thick, brown slop by the time Dorian hurries from his tent, two large bowls of something steaming in his hands.

“Get rid of that,” Dorian scolds, fighting the urge to bat the stew right out of Bull’s hands, “You’ll ruin your appetite.”

“But I’m a growing boy,” Bull teases, lowering his bowl to the ground.

Dorian shoves the wooden bowl at Bull, looking slightly nervous. Bull reaches out and takes it, staring down at the red-brown soup in his hands. An assortment of ingredients, including mushrooms, shoots, and scallions, bob in the liquid. Truthfully, Bull isn’t quite sure what some of the things are, but he trusts Dorian enough not to ask. When Bull breathes in, his nose fills with a tang of a variety of peppers as well as the sour of vinegar, and it does wonders for his sinuses.

“Hot and sour soup,” Dorian explains, settling down next to Bull with his own bowl. The mage must have warmed it up in his tent, with his magic, before bringing it out to share, “My nanny always made it for me when I was ill, so I thought it might help keep off the sickness that is sure to come with the chill around here.”

Bull takes a large spoonful, making sure to get broth as well as the mystery ingredients, swallowing it down hungrily. It’s warm and tingling, heating his throat as it goes down, and he hums in approval.

“It’s good?” Dorian asks, doubtful. He hurriedly speaks again, voice a mumble, “It’s the third batch I tried. _Reading_ about making it isn’t entirely the same as actually cooking it, it seems.”

“It’s good,” Bull confirmed, taking another large bite. The heat of the soup grew with each mouthful he swallowed.

Dorian’s expression relaxed, looking pleased, “Good. Because I made enough for the entirety of the trip, as long as you can restrain yourself from eating like an animal.”

Bull smiles warmly at the man, “Not making any guarantees.”

The pair eat their soup together, savoring it and rarely talking. Satisfied noises escape their lips occasionally, the burn of the meal deepening with each bite. It was warm and sharp at first, and the more Bull eats, the more his nose starts to run. Dorian sniffles beside him, quickly wiping at his nose before he takes another spoonful.

“What are you two _eating_?” the Inquisitor demands, watching with a slightly horrified expression as they both begin to wipe a tear from their eye.

“Tevinter cuisine,” Dorian smiles, “Hot and sour soup.”

“You’re crying,” Sera teases, raising an eyebrow.

“Comes with the territory. Want a taste?” Bull asks, ignoring his running nose to offer up his bowl of food.

Both of their comrades shake their heads aggressively.

“More for us,” Dorian chirps, slurping down the last of soup for dramatic effect and Bull grins lopsidedly at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize now soup might not be the best food to travel with????  
> Also, not the first time I've used to phrase "down and dirty" when Bull's referring to Dorian, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Sorry/not sorry.


	5. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull's hurting after all that happened at the Storm Coast and Dorian seeks out a way to comfort his friend.

There’s been a cloud clinging to the Iron Bull since leaving the Storm Coast, since the lingering burn of _gaatlok_ filled his senses. Sometimes, he though he could still taste the smoke and the death at the back of his throat. There was a guilt there, at not feeling guiltier at the loss, at accepting it as something that was inevitably going to happen. It felt distant, like he was watching the death of someone he barely knew, and it made his stomach lurch when he thought about it. It had been a long time coming, he realized. Years had passed since he truly felt a part of the Qun, long before he turned himself in for re-education. The brainwashing had helped, briefly, before it crumpled apart and he realized he’d never truly have a place among the Qun again. That was when he’d been removed from Seheron, allowed to roam Thedas as a spy. It was freeing, to be able to drink as much as he liked, fuck who he wanted, speak however he pleased. Still, the Qun had their hooks dug into him, and only now had he broken their hold. Now, he felt directionless, like he was a potential threat to everyone around him without _something_ to keep him in control.

He had his Chargers, and looking at them now, filling the wall of the tavern like they did almost every night, his chest swelled with pride. It was almost unbearable, making his eye burn uncharacteristically. He’d learned to fight down emotions and tears long ago, and having them at risk of spilling forth over his ale was not an idea he was too fond of. Instead, he hurriedly downed his mug and stood.

“Calling it quits already, Chief?” Krem teases softly, looking up at the Bull with a smirk, but there was sadness clear in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Bull says simply, not having much else to say. The group at the table are all looking at him, the same apologetic look in their eyes. It only makes him feel worse.

“Horns pointing up,” they insist, almost in unison, and the Bull has to turn away.

Tired, aching, he retreats up the stairs. The worry in his chest is strong, wondering when he might break and hurt the family he’s found. When will his animistic nature take over, dragging the Chargers down with him in a messy fight, or letting the feeling in the pit of his stomach for Dorian overtake him? He’d spent too much time chasing after and killing the Tal-Vashoth, believing they had given into their weakness and become a waste of breath, to be convinced he could be anything different. There was nothing to keep him together, to keep him grounded. Without the Qun, he’d surely lose control.

With a grunt, Bull lowered himself down on the bed. His knee had been especially problematic since the battle at Storm Coast, maybe because he had decided he deserved the pain and hadn’t tended to it as he normally would. He’d begun to unsnap the harness across his chest and work at the leg brace when there was a sharp knocking on the door. For a moment, Bull froze, confused to who it could be. When it came again, a vaguely irritated voice carried after it:

“I am a busy man, you know.”

Dorian. Of course it would be Dorian. The man had gone with them on the mission, despite his obvious unease at working with the Qunari. His knowledge of the Venatori, from extensive research and personal experience, had proved to be invaluable - even if he and Gatt had nearly killed each other. Dorian had watched as it all happened, watched as the Bull nearly fell apart when forced to decide between his men and his people, and stood by Bull as the dreadnaught sunk, when the others had turned away. After, Dorian had placed a comforting hand on the Bull’s arm, but said nothing. He knew there was nothing he could say to make anything better. In the days since they returned to Skyhold, the mage had been absent from the tavern, knowing he would just be a reminder of all that had happened.

Bull rose slowly, crossing the room. He wasn’t sure he was ready to see Dorian, to deal with the soft touch he had laid on his arm, to struggle with the burning in his stomach whenever he laid eyes on those golden eyes or dark skin. However, he couldn’t let Dorian to stand at his door all night, and he could hear him impatiently tapping his foot on the other side. When he pulled the door open, Dorian’s face lit up. He was carrying a crate full of bottles.

“Took you long enough. I’m not sure I could stomach Cole’s creeping for much longer,” he shot the shadows a look before stepping under Bull’s arm that braced against the door frame. Bull blinked slightly, having hoped that his arm across the doorway would bar Dorian’s entrance. He shut the door softly, turning slowly to examine the man. Dorian had never been in his quarters before, and was shooting a critical look around the room.

“The axe is a nice touch… But, it’s a bit drafty,” Dorian shivered, glancing at the hole in the ceiling, “ _Kaffas_ , I’m sure you could spare an afternoon to patch up the hole in your ceiling!”

Bull shrugs slightly, “Like looking at the stars.”

Dorian expression softens considerably before he turned away to put the crate on the dresser with a clink of glass. When he turned around again, he had a bottle in each hand. They were dark, with a darker label on them. Dorian look particularly pleased with himself.

“I ordered these in special, after some lengthy discussions with Josephine. It comes all the way from Antiva. Josey assures me it is excellent. Best be, since I’ve been roped into doing some research on her family in exchange,” Dorian hands them both to the Bull, so the man could pop the tops off of the bottles. The alcohol smelled like strong coffee, a note of vanilla and a hint of peppers infused within it, “Thought now would be as good of a time as any to enjoy them.”

Bull cocks his head slightly, watching the man tip back his bottle and take a long pull. He let out a pleased “ _Ah_ ” when the pulled the bottle away from his lips.

“It was my turn,” Bull answers simply. It had been nearly a month since the hot and sour soup Dorian made, which had almost lasted them through their journey in the Plains. Bull had shared another small box of chocolates with Dorian whenever the man stopped in the tavern, though that hardly counted. It was as much for his benefit as Dorian’s, watching the man bite into the chocolate shell, wondering how the chocolate would taste on Dorian’s lips. He wonders why Dorian went to such a length to get his hands on the stout, knowing it has somewhat more to do than his fine palette after hearing Dorian drunkenly admit to loving Fereldan ale and a lack of coin to consider buying anything more expensive. Something in the way Dorian looks at him, with understanding instead of the pity everyone else has been shooting him, makes him think Dorian has stronger feelings for the Bull than he would ever admit.

Dorian waves his hand at Bull with a sly smirk, “Whatever you choose next will have to be twice as good, then. Go on, try it.”

Bull grumbles slightly, but takes a swig of the stout anyways. It was deep and heady, carrying sweet and spice with it, leaving a lingering kick. It’s surprisingly soothing, to have Dorian here, to have a good drink to ease some of his worries.

“Good,” Bull nods, before taking another swallow.

“Always such a way with words,” Dorian looks at him from the corner of his eye, trying to judge his reaction.

Bull shrugs slightly, but the fact that he quickly drains the bottle was indicator enough for Dorian. Chuckling, Dorian downs his own to keep pace with the other man. Their night is spent telling stories, and re-telling stories - only the good ones. They steer clear of discussion of either of their trouble pasts, Dorian’s family and Iron Bull’s culture unspokenly off-limits. It’s all drunken laughter as Dorian recounts misinterpreting some Orlaisian vernacular early on in his journey south and getting into a peculiar predicament, and Bull sharing more of the Charger’s more interesting adventures, knowing that the scholar in Dorian would enjoy the tale of the possessed trees.


	6. Heating Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Bull's turn to bring along a meal for their trip, and of course Dorian has made it into some sort of competition. Also, more bad jokes.

“It’s your turn next,” Dorian sits down gracefully across from Bull, between Krem and Dalish. It seems to be his spot now, the seat remaining unoccupied when Dorian isn’t there, even on the busiest nights. He leans back, arm draped over the back of his chair, and looks smug.

  
 The Chargers groan at him, having heard the pair bicker about food regularly for the last few weeks. After the exchange of the spicy stout, Dorian seemed to be ever-present, as long as he wasn’t away with the Inquisition or researching in the library. The Bull and the mage had begun to speak about more than just food, delving into both of their complicated pasts as they grew closer as friends. Night after night, Dorian blearily headed back to his room after last call, drunk, having spilled forth all sorts of dark, messy secrets. Once, Dorian had even tearfully recounted the blood magic ritual that his father tried to force upon him, and Bull had shattered a bottle in his hands as he tensed in anger at the story. Another time, Bull had told the tale of losing his eye, of gaining Krem, in depth, full of gory details and buried emotions, and Bull’s hoarse voice had gotten Dorian choked up as well.

  
“And I believe you said that the next time we went on an excursion together, _you_ would supply the provisions,” Dorian continued, after the groans died down. He smugly examined his nails, eyes flickered up to Bull, “Remember, it has to be _twice_ as good, after missing your last turn.”

  
Bull grunted in disapproval, but couldn’t hide a smirk that pulled at his battle-scared lips. Dorian was speaking like he was issuing a challenge, like he dared the Bull to somehow mess up.

  
“The Inquisitor asked me to inform you we are to leave at daybreak—”

  
“You going to be up in time?” jabbed Bull, knowing Dorian’s inclination towards sleeping past noon if he was allowed.

  
Dorian flickered his eyelashes and continued, “So, you have precisely thirteen hours until we head out. I’ll leave you to your work.”

  
Dorian stood again, turning with a flair of his best crimson robes and headed right back out the door.

  
“Shit,” Bull breathed. The promise hadn’t been forgotten, but it had been pushed back in his mind in favor of having one last drunken evening with the Chargers before their  journey to the Emerald Graves. Apparently, Dorian hadn’t forgotten either.  
  
~~~  
From the moment they left the grates with their nug burdened with supplies, Dorian kept giving the Bull expectant looks. He thought the man would admit defeat, claim to have forgotten he needed to bring something on this trip. The mage wasn’t entirely sure why he had suddenly approached the topic as if it were a contest, though his competitive streak and ego were most likely to blame. Time and time again, the Iron Bull ignored the looks, instead humming happily to himself or talking to Varric. It was succeeding in making Dorian progressively more irritated, which was evident by his unrelenting huffing and especially dramatic eye rolls. The fact that they were traveling through the snowy mountains wasn’t helping Dorian’s mood any, and it grew steadily worse throughout the day.

  
“What’s gotten your skirt in a twist, Sparkler?” Varric asked after Dorian grumbled about all the dwarf’s stories being tall tales with little truth to them.

  
“ _It’s not a skirt,_ ” hissed Dorian, glaring at Varric and the Bull in turn. Bull gave a bemused shrug, as if some of the blame didn’t fall on him.

  
“You keep giving Tiny the stink-eye,” Varric’s eyes lit up, having long ago caught onto something brewing between them. Dorian certainly didn’t want to give the dwarf more fuel for the fire - or more writing material.

  
Dorian crossed his arms, “I most certainly do _not_. And if I were, I am sure it wouldn’t be unwarranted.” He hurried ahead to walk alongside the Inquisitor, who looked entirely bewildered, but tried to strike up a conversation.

  
Bull chuckled lightly and shrugged again when Varric looked up at him, confusion and curiosity etched into his features.  
  
Halfway to their destination, the group settled down for camp as the sun dipped below the horizon. They had only just descended the snowy mountain pass, the snow caps towering behind them, and cold gusts of wind following them down the side. They all helped put up the tents, and as soon as they were staked securely in the ground, Dorian hurried into his own in an effort to escape the frigid air.

  
In a hurry to warm up, Dorian began to strip of his damp clothes to change into something that wasn’t soaked through. Shaking fingers unclasped all his belts and buckles as he swore to himself, tugging them over his head and leaving him in his stockings. He was kicking off his boots when the tent flap opened.

  
“ _Kaffas_!” Dorian squawked, both at the sudden intrusion and the cool gust Bull brought in with him. The Bull stood, head bowed in the entry way, and only got a quick glance at the muscles of Dorian’s rich brown chest before the mage pulled his robes in front of his body. Still swearing, he threw one of his boots at Bull’s head, the qunari ducking back out of the tent with a laugh.

  
“Didn’t know you were that eager to get out of your clothes,” Bull teased, speaking loudly.

  
“ _Keep quiet_ ,” Dorian hissed, a blush rising on his dusky skin at the thought of the others thinking he was hurrying to get undressed for the Bull, “A more civilized person would have said something before entering.”

  
Bull hummed, “Tal-Vashoth now, remember. Far from civilized.” Dorian grumbled for a few minutes, quiet swears and complaints that Bull couldn’t quite make out. He shifted the cookware in his hands, glancing down at it with a slight feeling of nervousness.

  
“Enter,” Dorian called, and when Bull ducked back into the tent, Dorian was standing with his arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently. He was dressed more casually than Bull had ever seen him, in a pair of trousers and a loose-fitting tunic that revealed a bit of Dorian’s dark chest. Bull’s eyes flickered across him quickly, that familiar heat rising in the pit of his stomach as he thought how pretty the mage looked, before presenting the dish he was holding.

  
“You thought I forgot,” Bull said, smile growing wider as Dorian’s stern expression turned into one of astonishment.

  
“I spoke with the kitchen staff. They said you hadn’t been in the claim your ingredients,” Dorian mumbled, taking a step closer, “I assumed…”

  
He trailed off, looking down at the pot for a moment before his eyes flicked up to Bull’s face.

  
“You made this last night,” Dorian accused.

  
Bull smirked and shrugged, verifying Dorian’s statement.

  
Dorian looked pleased with himself, straightening up and crossing his arms, “So you _did_ forget.”

  
“Well, yeah. But, I never break my promises.”

  
“It wasn’t so much as a promise as much as me putting words in your mouth.”

  
Bull grunted. He nodded towards the pot.

  
“Needs warmed up.”

  
Dorian slipped off the lid first, looking down at the contents. The sauce was thick and red, mixed with chunky pieces of chicken and potato, a blend of spices adding hints of green. With a noise of approval, Dorian took the pot in his hands, which began to glow orange. As the food defrosted from the journey across the mountains, sharp aromas of peppers, gloves, cinnamon, and countless other spices began to fill the tent. The mage let out a happy sigh as the scent stung his nose, and Bull gave him a soft smile, thought Dorian missed the look as his eyes remained trained on the food between them.

  
“Did you make Krem help you? This smells suspiciously Tevene,” Dorian asked, hands on his hips, as Bull hurriedly set it down on the earth, the heat of the handles beginning to scald even his callous fingers.

  
“Nah.”

  
“Oh.”

  
Dorian excused himself for a moment in order to carry in a stool from around the fire in the center of camp. He had learned of Bull’s leg brace, which he had always assumed was just some sort of armor, and knew that the Bull would struggle to get back up off the ground if he sat. There’d been a time when the Bull was knocked to the earth, a rare and concerning moment, and the large man had struggled to gain his footing again. Dorian sat on his bedroll, criss-crossing his legs and placing his hands on his knees.

  
“I assume you remembered to bring dinnerware,” Dorian leaned forward, breathing in deeply as the steam rose from the now-sizzling food.

  
Bull pulled two large spoons from his pocket, making a move to hand one to Dorian.

  
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Dorian crinkled his nose, refusing to take the utensil for a moment.

  
“Less to carry. Less to worry about. We’ll be the only ones who can eat this, anyways.”

  
With a dramatic sigh, Dorian yanked the spoon from Bull’s hands. It was a stretch for Bull to lean down and scoop up a bite of his food, but they begun to dig in. Dorian’s skeptical expression melted into one of surprise as a slight groan escaped his lips. Bull quirked his eyebrows slightly, and wasn’t entirely sure if the red that touched the other man’s cheeks was from the heat or embarrassment.

  
“It’s delicious,” Dorian admitted, tongue burning pleasantly, the heat and the flavors just right.

  
“I didn’t mention I could cook?” Bull said innocently.

  
“No,” Dorian’s eyes narrowed, even as he took another bite of the mouth-watering food, “You didn’t.”

  
“Like you said, you pick it up after a lot of traveling alone. Or, traveling with a band of cohorts who could burn water.”

  
Dorian chuckled, “I concede. You did succeed in making this twice as good as the stout.”

  
The rest of the meal was spent mostly in silence, both of them eating happily. A few times, they would sniffle as their noses began to run, or carefully wipe watering eyes. The clink of spoons scraping against metal to get the best bites and the satisfied noises that Dorian occasionally made were the only sounds to fill the tent. He was somewhat grateful for the wind outside, which would hopefully keep his noises from carrying and giving Varric even more to take notes on.

  
Bull was surprised to find Dorian catching spilled droplets of food with his hand, licking his fingers clean. He tried not to stare, to avert his eyes to anything else but Dorian’s tongue and slightly swollen lips, but his eyes returned to the sight each time. Caught up in his meal, Dorian truly had no clue what he was doing to Bull. After eating past the point of being comfortably full, Dorian dropped his spoon back into the bowl to wipe at his mustache and chin, sucking on fingers again. This time, his eyes caught Bull’s gaze.

  
“Well, I’m full,” Dorian stated, dusky red cheeks only growing redder again as he moved his hands to straighten out his mustache instead, “Though you look like you don’t have any signs of slowing down just yet.”

  
Bull gave a slight shake of his head, “Ate this the time I was in Minrathos… You’ve been there, right?”

  
“Of course. I’m not a plebeian,” Dorian sniffed, looking somewhat fond.

  
“You ever been to that place in the Vivazzi Plaza? With the big, cracked bell hanging off the roof?”

  
“With the dancers, yes. You’re making me homesick.”

  
Bull smiled slightly, studying Dorian’s faraway face. Dorian began to talk, sounding a little dreamy and distant, of his childhood and easier times. With nostalgia, he spoke of traveling there with his parents, of studying the garden at the Grand Proving Area and of seeing the huge Juggernauts that protected the city, of traveling there again when he was older, seeing the dancers and exploring the underbelly of the city. But, for Dorian, the good memories he held close were tangled with the bad. His memory moved to when he lived there as a young man, studying under Alexius before he realized how much he loathed the lying and deceit, the false ideas of superiority. He’d fled from the Imperium on the highway that started in the city, trailing south. The dreamy look faded, replaced by slightly furrowed brows and the slightest bit of pain. For a moment, Bull regrets bringing the Plaza up, regrets being the reason that Dorian’s face falls. However, Dorian doesn’t feel homesick for long, especially with the Bull before him, one of the few friends he had ever earned in his life. His concerned face breaks into a gentle smile once more, looking up at Bull watching him.

  
“You’ve got something…” Dorian trails off, studying the Bull’s face, the Bull’s lips. There’s a smear of food at the corner of his growing smile, nestled amongst the scars. Without thinking about it too much, Dorian stands up abruptly, careful of the food on the floor, and reaches out to wipe away the sauce with the pad of his thumb. Bull’s look is soft, almost surprisingly so, but Dorian has learned that the man isn’t truly all muscles and grit, isn’t the unflinching stone he appears to be. There isn’t anyone else as gentle or trustworthy in the Inquisition, Dorian thinks fondly. He lets himself continue to smile, small and true, as he studies the Bull. The man is studying him in return, that one eye seeing more of Dorian than anyone ever has.

  
Before Dorian has the chance to second-guess himself, he’s surging in to kiss the Bull’s lips. They’re also surprisingly soft, even as stumble rakes against Dorian’s smooth jaw. The kiss is unsure at first, Dorian hesitant and Bull wanting to be sure that this is what Dorian wants. Then, Dorian lets himself relax into it, hands moving to rest on Bull’s hulking shoulders. Their mouths are still burning and swollen from the spices, and now beginning to burn with something different as Dorian opens his mouth slightly against Bull’s. Dorian swipes his tongue into Bull’s mouth, getting a jolt of heat in return. Strong hands seize his hips, squeezing gently as the kiss grows deeper.

  
Food forgotten behind him, Dorian breaks the kiss to take a step back and examine Bull again. Instead, he steps on the corner of the pot, spilling it all over the floor and his feet. He would have slipped, if Bull hadn’t already had a firm grip on his hips.

  
“Fasta vass,” Dorian grumbles, hands falling away from Bull as he looks down at the mess. Then, he smirks lightly as he thinks of a joke that he’s sure Bull will appreciate, “I’ve really stepped in it this time.”

  
Bull chuckles, eye never leaving Dorian’s face.

  
“So much for that…” Dorian wipes on of his feet on a clean section of the floor, sighing again. His eyes lift back up to Bull, who is still looking affectionately at him. Another blush covers Dorian’s cheeks and his hand goes to smooth his mustache, a nervous tick Bull has grown to expect.

  
With an irritated huff, Dorian says: “Just kiss me, you idiot.”  
  
Lips swollen from frenzied kisses and burning spices, they only part when Bull notices Dorian’s eyelids beginning to droop slightly. He leans away from Dorian, who leans back in to nuzzle at his neck. The Bull’s heart is soaring, pleasantly surprised by the way the night turned out, but he decides it’s best not to rush into things with Dorian. Tonight, Dorian might be all kisses and affection and want, but he knows the shame that Dorian caries with him about his desires, that it’ll be best if they ease into whatever this is.

  
“Alright, mage, I think it’s time for bed,” Bull grunts, Dorian’s tongue running across his neck.

  
“Hm?” Dorian says, confused, “I don’t want to stop.”

  
Bull snorts, “You’re about to fall asleep.”

  
“Am not.”

  
Bull shakes his head once, firmly, before slowly standing. This time, Dorian steps back carefully, crossing his arms as he turns away from the Bull with a slight look of disappointment on his features. Without a word, Bull picks up the spilled pot and cleans the mess on the floor, before taking a step towards the door. Dorian turns to look at Bull, no animosity left in his expression. He crosses the space between them in a long stride, grabbing at Bull’s harness to pull him down and standing on tiptoes to place one last, quick peck on Bull’s lips before the man returns to his own tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized the tense changed somewhere along the way and I plan on fixing that but whoooooops, sorry. Sloppy writing over here.


	7. Hot and Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian and Bull travel together as a whatever-they-are for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF I SPELL DESERT AS DESSERT, PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

“Who knew deserts could be so impossibly cold?” Dorian grumbled as they head back to camp, the sun beginning to set. Bull thought the bit of coolness in the air and shadows was a welcome relief after the blistering heat of the day. Cole and the Inquisitor were in the lead, Cole sometimes making worrying comments about the magic he sensed deeper in the desert. The Bull and Dorian trailed after them, walking side-by-side as they trekked across the shifting sands. Dorian had been complaining about the Forbidden Oasis all day, from the sheer amount of sand to the massive giant they encountered to the shards they were here to research. They had yet to make their way to a temple somewhere in the maze of walkways, instead spending their time murdering stray Venatori and fighting spiders who inhabited a cavern that some woman left a ring within. Why the Inquisitor insisted on helping all the charity cases in Thedas, Dorian would never know, “Did you know that sand could just swallow you up? _Whoop_ , and you’re gone? What a miserable place this is.”

  
“I dunno, I kinda liked it,” Bull teased gently, glancing in the mage’s direction.

  
Dorian huffed, “Only because you got to kill countless Venatori.”

  
“Hey, sometimes you gotta appreciate the little things in life.”

  
Rolling his eyes, Dorian caught up with the others, leaving Bull to bring up the rear. Shaking his head slightly, he left Dorian alone for the rest of the trip back to base. When they reached camp, Dorian threw his things into the tent he’s sharing with Bull before picking a spot close to the fire. The others began to worry about dinner, realizing how long it had been since breakfast, how long they had been trudging relentlessly through the spiraling passageways of the desert. As Bull helped the Inquisitor divvy up their rations, he watched Dorian carefully. He’s surprised to see how much Dorian actually is shivering, despite having been complaining about the heat hours early. The man really was a hot house orchid, wilting easily in the southern cold. Once they had their meager meal of dried meats and cheese ready, Bull makes his way over to Dorian.

  
“Hey,” Bull said, presenting a plate of food to the man. Dorian crinkled his nose, but his hunger won out and he grudgingly took the offering, “Mind if I sit here?”

  
Dorian looked momentarily surprised at the question when Bull gestures to the empty spot next to Dorian. They had been doing whatever this is for at least a month now, the kiss in Bull’s tent opening the door for more once they returned to Skyhold. Dorian had lost track of how many nights he ended up in Bull’s bed, woke up tangled in his sheets and quickly fled before it could start meaning much more than just sex. It was hard to ignore the fluttering feeling in his stomach whenever the Bull smiled at him, or brushed his knuckles against his skin, or tangled his fingers in his hair. This was their first outing together since it began, which had made Dorian apprehensive in a number of ways — the idea of sharing a tent was putting him on-edge, especially with Cole, of all people, being the third member of the party. Asking whether or not the seat was free seemed like a trivial thing in comparison, yet the thought and care Bull puts into the question makes Dorian flush slightly.

  
“Do what you want,” Dorian shrugged slightly, beginning to pick at the cheese so he doesn’t have to look over at the Bull.

  
“Pretty lousy meal, huh?” Bull sat heavily after their long day of exploring the nooks and crannies of the desert. He nudged Dorian slightly, smiling at him and hoping he can get Dorian to relax.

  
Dorian snorted, looking dissatisfied as he takes bite of the jerky, “Well, just about anything would pale in comparison to the meal we shared during our last excursion.”  
Bull didn’t hide his smug smile at the though of sharing a meal with Dorian in their tents, of tasting the heat and spice against Dorian’s lips as they kissed for the first time. Happiness flooded him as he surmised that Dorian remembered it fondly as well, a small smile on the mage’s lips at the memory, though it quickly faded as he chewed unendingly at the piece of dried druffalo.

  
As they picked at their meal, Dorian slowly edged closer to Bull. It was a conscious decision as Dorian noticed Cole had already vanished into the darkness and the Inquisitor looked ready to fall asleep in their spot, and deciding it’s worth the risk of the others noticing. The Bull radiated warmth and comfort, and lately, Dorian wanted nothing more than to be close to the man’s side. When he finally gives up on his meal, he slowly leaned against Bull, a brief flicker of uncertainty and doubt surfacing as Bull stilled. Surprise flickered across Bull’s one eye for a moment, the mage at his side somehow doing things that catch him off-guard time and time again. Then, he hummed in approval as he finished the last bits of food on his place.

  
“You gonna eat that?” Bull nodded towards the half-finished plate on Dorian’s knees. A bark of laughter escaped Dorian’s lips, the noise echoing off the surrounding canyon walls of the desert, and the Herald starts slightly from their sleepy daze. Dorian gave a shake of his head, holding up the plate for Bull to take.

  
Even with the heat the qunari was giving off, Dorian still managed to shiver against Bull’s shoulder. Bull frowned down at the man, whose eyes are closed and  arms are wrapped securely around himself in an attempt to ignore the chill. Quickly, Bull brushed the crumbs from his fingertips before he lifted a hand to rake through the hair at the back of Dorian’s scalp. The mage’s eyes snapped up, looking at Bull with a mixture of pleasure and uncertainty. His eyes flickered to the Inquisitor, who had taken notice of the two of them all but cuddling by the fireside, but hadn’t reacted beyond a soft smile.

  
“C’mon, let’s get you warmed up,” Bull said softly, beginning to stand. Dorian narrowed his eyes slightly, assessing Bull and feeling like there’s an innuendo hidden in his words, “Unless you want to freeze to death in a desert.”

  
Sighing dramatically, Dorian stood. Bull lead the way to the tent, ducking inside and holding the tent flaps open for Dorian to follow suit. Once inside, Bull knelt on his bedroll and began to rustle in his satchel that carries his sparse necessities. Dorian gave him a questioning look before he hurried to his own bedroll, pulling the blankets around his shoulders as he tried to warm up.

  
“I thought you said you were going to warm me up,” Dorian huffed as Bull takes his time going through his things.

  
“Hold on, I know I brought it.”

  
Dorian sighed deeply again, rolling his eyes. A moment later, Bull exclaimed “ _Ah ha!_ ” as he pulled out a small glass bottle, which was carefully folded in a thick cloth. He held it up triumphantly, Dorian’s eyes widening as he examined the amber liquid inside, the red and black label, the black wax the bottle was sealed with.

  
“Is that-” Dorian asked in awe, scrambling out from beneath his blanket to cross the tent and make a grab at the bottle.

  
“Yup,” Bull beamed at Dorian, moving the bottle from the smaller man’s reach easily, “Bonafide Tevene cinnamon whiskey. Have I mentioned I know some people?”

  
“While you have brought that up on more than one occasion, I didn’t realize you meant _sophisticated_ people,” Dorian quipped, preening his mustache as he eyed the bottle.

  
“Figured it would do the job of warming us up in the desert cold.”

  
“Really, who would think somewhere so blisteringly _hot_ during the day could be so _frigid_ at night?”

  
“Good thing I’m always prepared.”

  
Bull pulled out a corkscrew on queue, removing the cork from the bottle and taking a long whiff of the alcohol. When Dorian reached out for the bottle a second time, Bull handed it over with a soft chuckle. A grin lit up his face, Dorian breathed in the scent of smoky, strong alcohol with an equally strong kick of cinnamon. Bull studied that smile, the way it carried up to his eyes, the way it showed off his pearly white teeth, the way it looked sweet and enthusiastic and downright happy, and hoped he can bring that look to Dorian’s face many more times to come.

  
Dorian took a swig straight from the bottle, again surprising the Bull. A slight grimace came across Dorian’s features when the drink first hits his tongue, sharp and hot, but it quickly melted back into that earnest grin again. Before he hands it back to the Bull, Dorian took another longer drink.

  
“Try it,” Dorian ordered, voice slightly rough, which stirred something both fond and wanting in Bull’s stomach.

  
Obediently, Bull reached for the bottle before taking a gulp of his own. It was warm, heat burning down his throat, filling his stomach. It wasn’t _Marass-Lok_ , nothing near as powerful or mind-altering, but it had quite a kick of its own, the sting of alcohol and cinnamon already sending warmth through his limbs.

  
Before the bottle is half-gone, Dorian already began to yammer without inhibition. He could hold his alcohol well, which Bull found equal measures impressive and endearing, but the ‘Vint seemed to enjoy the sound of his voice even more when drunk. The Bull liked to listen, to hear about the handful of happy memories that Dorian shared about his past in Tevene, about Maevaris Tilani accepting him into her home when no one else did, about Felix and the adventures he and his dear friend had as boys, how both had proudly remained his friends after fleeing Tevinter. The shivering in Dorian’s limbs had long since subsided, a flush now on Dorian’s face, his lips slightly swollen from the drink and from the occasional stolen kiss, which Bull decides is a good look for him.

  
One of these kisses stretched on and on, Bull briefly wishing that moments like this didn’t have to end as Dorian kissed him back without reservations, trailing his bronze hands against the Bull’s silver skin. They ended up pressed together on Bull’s bedroll, Dorian sprawled on top of him still in his robes, as they kissed lazily. One hand gripped Dorian’s hip loosely, the other tracing the edge of Dorian’s jaw, the stumble accumulating there, the mole beneath his eye. Dorian broke the kiss to stare down at Bull, his eyes bright and his smile soft, before he placed one last kiss to his cheek. With a content sigh, Dorian nuzzled into Bull’s chest, Bull feeling as each warm exhale of breath tickled across his flesh. He pulled a blanket over the pair of them, knowing that Dorian would be shivering in the night without one, and rubbed Dorian’s back until they fell asleep like that, pressed together and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO, if you were expecting smut, I'm sorry. I'm not sure if this is going to be a smut-free ride or not, buuuuut I haven't been feeling smut so it's looking that way right now?


	8. PDA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian realizes that public displays of affection really aren't a big deal down south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for delayed updating (again)! I'm moving to a new apartment, internet gets hooked up this week!

“It’s not much,” Dorian admitted as he sat down, sliding the paper bag over to the Bull, “But Mae assured me they go great with ale.”

  
Dorian and the Bull have been making out in the shadowy recesses of Skyhold and doing a lot more in the privacy of Bull’s room (and the library, once) for months now. In the meanwhile, Dorian’s moved from sitting across the table from Bull, to sitting next to him, taking up the previously vacant space there. Bull was trying to keep the relationship hush hush, as Dorian’s insisted, but he’s not sure he can handle it much longer. He doesn’t want to scream Dorian’s name to the hole in the sky, but he’s not a fan of dirty little secrets. Both Krem and Cole obviously knew, Dorian giving it all away when he had asked the other ‘Vint for help baking and Cole unable to keep from digging up everyone else’s secrets. He can take it slow, give the other man space and time to think this out, but he wants to be able to proudly proclaim that he and Dorian are a thing. A strange feeling is growing in his chest, throbbing when Dorian is near, and aching whenever the man isn’t.

  
Bull reached for the bag, purposefully making their fingers brush. Dorian gave him an arrogant smile before he slowly withdraws his hand. He pulled the bag closer, looking inside with curiosity. Candied pecans, from the looks of it. He carefully picks one out and pops it into his mouth, crunching down. Cinnamon and chilies and salt flood his mouth, a pleasantly sweet and spicy mix. Dorian’s caught onto the Bull’s sweet tooth and was sure the combination would be a winner.

  
“These are good,” exclaimed the Bull, picking up a handful this time and shoving them into his mouth.

  
“I assumed you’d enjoy them,” Dorian nodded, looking smug and starting to reach towards the bag.

  
“Did you try them?” Bull tugged the bag away teasingly, talking with a mouthful of food, a few pieces falling onto Dorian’s outstretched hand.

  
“I thought it’d be more satisfying if we tried them together,” Dorian looked confused, hand still poised to grab for the treat for a moment more. Then, he quickly brushed the few pieces of pecan off his hand and arm with a tch, “Don’t talk with food in your mouth, you heathen.”

  
“How about you let me feed you one?” Bull said, steel eye gleaming.

  
“I think not,” Dorian drew away quickly, crossing his arms and turning away.

  
Bull shrugged, picking the bag up to keep them out of reach of Dorian and placing a few more in his mouth with a pleased noise. Dorian looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at the other man, making a noise of disgust that he learned to perfect from Cassandra. Bull just continued to crunch away happily, ignoring the glower that Dorian was shooting him.

  
“Bull, this is ridiculous,” Dorian whined, “I got the blasted things shipped all the way here from Qarinus.”

  
Toying with Dorian, Bull sets the bag back on the table. Dorian huffed again, crossing and then uncrossing his legs. Bull hums as he takes a long drink of ale, stuffing another handful in his mouth.

  
“These do taste great with ale,” Bull agreed happily, giving Dorian his one-eye wink when the man turned to look at him.

  
“Ugh,” Dorian rolled his eyes, turning away yet again.

  
Bull hoped that Dorian will say the word if the situation gets too much for him. He’s tried to be clear about it, telling Dorian that he can use it at any time, whether it’s mid-romp or during Bull’s particularity aggressive style of public flirting. Whenever he insisted on reviewing the need for a safeword, for all the ways Dorian can use it, the man always rolled his eyes and insisted he’ll be _‘just fine._ ’ The mage had yet to say it, in the bedroom or on the field, which both surprises and worries the Bull. Carefully, he eyed the other man, amusement falling away from his face as he wonders if he’s pushing him too far, ponders if Dorian will actually use the word when he needs to.

  
“ _Fine_ ,” Dorian hissed, which pulls Bull out of his thoughts. Turning suddenly, he stood and grabbed Bull by the horns to roughly jerk his head forward, crashing their mouths together. Bull made a sound against Dorian’s lips, caught off-guard for a moment, and by the time he had regained his composure, Dorian was already pulling away. He glanced around quickly, noting that none of the patrons seem to have noticed the exchange.

  
As Dorian sat back down, he ran a pink tongue over his lips. They tasted of cinnamon and salt, tasted slightly like Bull under the sweet and spice. The quick dart of his tongue against full, dark lips made Bull want more of Dorian. He was full of want and need for Dorian, for his warm arms around him, his lips against his own, his face softened into a smile.

  
“Was that adequate enough?” Dorian quipped, reaching into the bag and pulling out a pecan. He’s relieved that no one has taken notice of their locked lips, that the Fereldans  really don’t seem to care much whether two men are kissing in the tavern. He knows it isn’t Tevinter, knows that he has friends here, people watching out for him, but it’s hard to shake old habits. There’s still an old fear, after he’s heard and seen people get hurt - or worse - for public displays of affection between two men. It’s hard to not want to hide this away, pull Bull into dark corners, to flinch whenever someone happens to wander past the place they’re hidden. A small smile began to tug at his lips at the realization that he doesn’t have to keep this a dirty little secret, and at the realization maybe this can be something more than just a hidden affair.

  
Before Dorian can place the pecan to his lips, Bull rushs forward and steals another, rougher, kiss. For a moment, Dorian had the impulse to squirm away, before he gives in and drapes his arms around Bull’s muscled neck. Someone whooped at them, a few people taking notice now, but it was for a fleeting moment and then the din of the tavern  returned to normal. Dorian’s sure he’ll hear about this from someone later, but he realizes he doesn’t mind.

  
“I would say my turn was a success, then,” Dorian teased, placing the treat purposefully in his mouth and then licking his fingertips clean, Bull growling low in reply.  



	9. Breakfast in Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull makes of daring move -- of bringing Dorian breakfast in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! I haven't forgotten about this one!  
> This was one of my favorite chapters to write.

Slowly, Bull blinks awake in the early hours of the day. Pale light is spilling in front the hole in the ceiling, and it takes a moment for him to realize that Dorian is still nestled beside him. His olive skin is shining in the light, accenting the curves and shape of his body, washing across his peaceful face. Surprise and relief rise in Bull’s chest. It’s only the second time Dorian hasn’t fled before Bull wakes up - or, more accurately, before he _thinks_ Bull wakes up. Even during their trips with the Inquisitor, Dorian somehow makes it out of the tent before Bull rises, already groomed and dressed for the day. Bull knows it’s from years of practice, of discreetly fucking in shoddy inns and quest bedrooms and storage closets, of having to pull himself together quickly before returning to the outside world. The only other night Dorian had stayed, he slept through the morning until Bull woke him with gentle kisses, and then stayed for hours after that. It hadn’t happened since, and that was nearly three weeks ago.

  
 Seeing Dorian hurriedly grab his clothes, pull on his boots, and retreat without a goodbye always leaves Bull with a knot in his chest. He can take things as slow or as fast as Dorian needs, but he’s realized that he’s started to need Dorian. They’ve started having intimate moments that involve more than just sex, spending nights tangled together and talking, sharing secrets and soft words that only the dark of the night allows. Bull’s begun to realize he’d say them in the broad daylight, that he would indeed yell Dorian’s name to the rift in the sky, but he doubted Dorian feels the same. Now, _this_ , is a revelation. One night means nothing, Bull had written it off as an fluke, but Dorian’s decided to stay again…

  
Something stirs in Bull’s chest at seeing Dorian like this. Normally, he only gets small glimpses of this Dorian as his drifts to sleep next to him, or when Bull wakes in the pale moonlight to watch the mage sleep. Now, he’s using Bull’s bicep as a pillow, half his face and mustache smashed against his gray skin. His mouth is slightly open and he’s breathing, warm and steady, across Bull’s skin. There’s no more style to his hair and there’s a smudge of kohl below his eyes. Mouth slack, eyes gently closed, Dorian looks positively at ease, with nothing weighing him down for once. Bull watches the rise and fall of his chest, enjoys how peaceful and beautiful the man beside him looks. Careful not to wake him, Bull reaches out and traces his arms down his side. A slight shiver rises in Dorian, and Bull’s sure Dorian’s cold even pressed against Bull’s side. The man is _always_ cold.

  
An idea strikes Bull, and he gently eases Dorian’s head from his arm. A soft mumble rises from Dorian before the mage rolls over, tugging the covers up to cover him to his chin. It’s a shame, really, to hide away all the beautiful brown skin. Bull hurriedly pulls on his pants and boots, forgoing anything unneeded for now, and goes to head out the door. He stops, hand on the handle, and returns to the bedside. He leans down and places a soft kiss on Dorian’s forehead, before he hurries to the door again and lets it close quietly behind him.

  
When Bull returns with two plates in his hands an hour later, Dorian is still asleep, now sprawled out across Bull’s sheets. He grumbles something inaudible, most likely in Tevene, as Bull sets down the plates on his dresser. The smell of cilantro and lime, onions and garlic begin to fill the room, and Dorian shifts again in his sleep. Bull moves to the foot of the bed, watching as Dorian slowly begins to wake.

  
The man stretches for a moment, eyes still shut, muscles rippling, and Bull smiles to himself. Then, Dorian’s mustache twitches slightly, like something is tickling his nose, and he slowly peels an eye open. His gaze falls on Bull for a moment, wondering if he has time to quickly flee before he falls in deeper to whatever this is, before he inhales deeply.

  
“What,” Dorian begins, voice hoarse from sleep, “Is that wonderful smell?”

  
“Breakfast,” Bull replies simply.

  
Dorian begins to scrub sleep from his face, messing up his mustache completely, further smudging the streak of kohl. A low chuckle escapes Bull at the sight, smiling fondly at the man in his bed. Slowly, scratching the back of his neck, Dorian sits up. Then, he grows suddenly still, realization hitting him.

  
“You made breakfast?” Dorian questions, brows knit together. He thought back to the time Bull offered him chocolates without knowing what it could imply, and wonders if the qunari has any idea how intimate breakfast in bed is. Studying Bull’s gentle face, the way that one crisp eye is watching him with complete adoration, Dorian decides the Bull know exactly what it implies.

  
“Sure,” Bull shrugged, a simple gesture a show of force for the man. Dorian watches his massive shoulders rise and fall, the muscle tense then relax.

  
“Breakfast,” Dorian insists, biting his lip.

  
“I can go give it to Krem and the boys if you’re so bent out of shape about it,” Bull says it teasingly, but Dorian knows he would if that’s what Dorian truly wanted.

  
“No, I just… I…”Dorian’s at a loss for words, instead looking down and staring at his hands.

  
“It’s all new to me, too,” Bull grunts, turning back to grab the plates.

  
Dorian looks back up, startled at how easily Bull reads him. It’s all so new and strange. _Happiness_ isn’t something Dorian ever expected to happen to him, especially not when it meant spending his precious time with a Tal-Vashoth, a hulking brute of a man who could easily break Dorian in two, but instead cooks him breakfast in bed. He shakes his head slightly, and then laughs out-loud in disbelief.

  
“Something funny?” Bull asks as he approaches the bed, looking pleased himself.

  
“This whole situation is …” Dorian waves his hands as he searches for the right word, “Impossible. Ridiculous. Surprisingly okay.”

  
“I can work with surprisingly okay.”

  
Bull hands Dorian one plate before easing into bed next to him. Dorian nearly tips over, the bed dipping at the weight of the Bull, but is sure to keep a firm grip on the food. He studies it as Bull settles into his spot, bouncing Dorian around slightly, but Dorian’s used to the manhandling by now. Two eggs with golden brown edges sit on top of pieces of chicken cooked in a thick gravy, scallions and crumbles of cheese topping off the dish. The spices wafting up from it are making Dorian’s mouth water. Bull presents his fork and a mouthful of food to Dorian, who scrutinizes it for a long moment.

  
“Festis bei umo canavarum,” Dorian grumbles, not for the first time, and opens his mouth so Bull can feed him. When the spices fill his mouth, coupled with the savory yolk, he groans happily. Their _good_ meals together are few and far between, with the busy schedules they keep with the Inquisition and how easy it is to eat greasy food and drink cheap ales in the tavern on calmer eves. Dorian forgets how much he enjoys the heat from the food, and the heat that fills his chest when he shares it with Bull. The other man’s eye sparks with pleasure and amusement, feeling satisfied with how his plan was panning out.

  
They eat their meal together this way, taking turns feeding each other. Dorian finds himself laughing as they make a mess, spilling food on the bed and their bodies. When Bull dribbles yolk and gravy down his chin, Dorian leans forward and licks the trail clean, smirking at Bull’s groan of pleasure.

  
“Not a terrible idea, this,” Dorian said cheerfully just before Bull captures his mouth in a deep, wanting kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the next chapter written, soooo I'll probably upload that once I make sure there's not going to be a another little chapter between this one and the next C:


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to JustJasper for the food recommendation!

The dampness of Crestwood is beginning to wear on Bull’s knee, making it ache despite the brace. He’s putting on his best neutral face, able to muscle through the hurt and follow the others across the soggy landscape. He tries to focus on the end goal to why they’re here, to seek out some wyvern that’s been causing trouble for the farmers, and that’s almost enough to keep his mind off of the pain. Despite thinking he’s putting on a good show, he catches Dorian shooting him a concerned look.

  
“Are you alright?” Dorian questions, dropping back to walk alongside the man. He eyes the brace knowingly, having eased away the lingering pain in Bull’s leg on more than on occasion.

  
“’M fine,” grunts Bull, and he nearly winces when he realizes it makes him sound anything but fine. It’s easy to fight through pain on the battlefield, adrenaline fueling the fight, making the wounds sting less. This type of ache is relentless, deep and forever, and it makes pulling his boots out of the boggy ground difficult.

  
“Do you need something to take the edge off?” Dorian questions, hand moving to his robes as he searches for something. Bull grunts his uncertainty. Pain helps him, fuels him onward. He doesn’t need to take potions and use salves whenever he gets some sort of ache.

  
“Nah,” Bull reaches out to still Dorian’s hands. The mage looks up at him questioningly, worry clear on his face, “But, I know something you can do to get my mind off of it later.”

  
Bull adds in a waggle of his eyebrows, and the Inquisitor snickers from somewhere ahead. Dorian’s attention snaps to them, a blush rising on his face.

  
“Impossible, the lot of you,” Dorian threw up his hands, before wagging a finger at the grinning Herald, “Really, Cole does less eavesdropping than you.”

  
“I do not think that was a compliment,” Cole mumbles, glancing between Dorian and the Bull. His gaze moves to Bull’s knee for a minute, something churning in those blue eyes of his.

  
“Bit of a backhanded compliment,” Bull agrees, grinning lopsidedly, cutting Cole off before he can make Dorian worry more.

  
“Ugh,” Dorian groans out, stomping ahead to walk with Cole instead.

  
“You aren’t really mad,” Cole states knowingly, and Dorian shoots him a dirty look as well.

  
“Not you, too, Cole,” Dorian growls, and Bull chuckling behind them.

  
Bull’s chuckling suddenly turns to a noise of pain, somewhere between a growl and a whine. Dorian’s turning to comment on his Maker-forsaken knee again, but his eyes go wide instead at the sight of an arrow burrowed into Bull’s shoulder. There’s a small trail of blood leaking down his gray skin already, and Bull looks more pissed than hurt. Dorian can’t exactly place the feeling in his chest, something tight and constricting, something that makes his breath catch in his throat.

  
Cole grabs Dorian, pulling him down as another arrow whizzes by them. It burrows harmlessly in the dirt as Dorian searches the hilltop for the source of the attack. There’s a glimmer of red armor, and Dorian smashes the end of his staff into the ground, an answering bolt of lighting crashing into a Templar at the top of the hill. Bull’s already moving past them, breaking into an uneven charge as he pulls the arrow from his shoulder and casts it aside. The Herald follows, the pair of them crashing through the brush to reach the Templars who are now scrambling to figure out their plan. Cole lingers, extending his hand to Dorian.

  
“The Iron Bull is alright,” Cole reassures him, Dorian’s trembling hand taking Cole’s surprisingly steady one, the spirit helping Dorian back to his feet, “It hurts, seeing him hurt, and you don’t know what to do with it.”

  
“Come, they need us,” Dorian answers, ignoring the statement, and breaking into a brisk jog up the hill to join the battle.

  
It’s short-lived, the Templars obviously biting off more than they could chew. Bull throws them around like rag dolls, even the ones glistening with growing crystal and bulky armor. Dorian burns through them ruthlessly with enough heat to sear through the crystals, leaving lyrium and flesh bubbling and blackened. Cole and the Inquisitor pick them off carefully, before they even know what hits them half the time, and it isn’t long before the ground is littered with dead bodies. Bull’s wound has already stopped bleeding, but the feeling in Dorian’s chest hasn’t yet subsided as he studies the puncture and the blood caked around it.

  
“You’ll be taking that potion now, yes?”

  
“Huh? Nah. Save it in case we run into a real problem,” Bull shrugs, as if it’s a little thing, and Dorian bristles.

  
Dorian swears under his breath, turning away from Bull and heading towards the trail they had been following, without waiting for the others. Bull stares after him, realizing he’s made a misstep somewhere and isn’t exactly sure what happened. The boss gives him a confused look before hurrying after the angry mage. Bull trails behind again, wiping blood off on his pants, and is grateful when Cole appears next to him.

  
“Gonna fill me in, kid?”

  
Cole nods, hat flopping lazily, “Brier and bluster to hide a hurt. I can’t lose what I just found.”  
Bull’s eye wandered between Cole and Dorian, processing the information with a bit of surprise, “He was that worried about me.” Dorian had fussed over him after battles before, but it was before their something started to delve into something more, and Bull began to understand.

  
“Yes, the Iron Bull.”

  
“Thanks, Cole.”  
  
Dorian spent the remainder of the day in a huff, keeping his distance from the Bull and making the journey to camp rather tense. He snapped at Cole whenever the spirit opened his mouth near him, the mage growing especially agitated again after Cole said something about unlearning not to hope for more. Bull sighs, giving Dorian the space the man needs until they get to camp. It’s inevitable, then, the pair of them set to share a tent. Still, it doesn’t stop Dorian from trying to avoid the Bull, as he quickly ducks into the tent that the scouts already have set up. Bull’s grateful their supplies haven’t been completely distributed as he digs through his bags for the jar of chilli jelly he brought along for the trip. He nabs some of the dried meats and cheeses from the requisition officer readying to serve dinner. He thinks better of heading right into the tent, instead letting the Herald help clean and bandage the wound, before ducking into his shared quarters.

  
“Hey,” Bull greets gently, hesitantly crossing the tent towards Dorian. He’s already nestled up with a book, knees drawn up and tome carefully balanced on his knees. Dorian sniffs as a reply, but doesn’t so much as look at the qunari. Bull sighs deeply in response before moving closer, “Dorian.”  
This time, Dorian glances towards him. His gaze first lingers on the bandaged wound, then moves to the food items in Bull’s hands.

  
“Dorian, I didn’t mean to make you worry,” Bull explains gently, easing himself down next to Dorian and setting the food between them.

  
“Yes, well…” Dorian clears his throat pointedly, marking his page and setting aside the book slowly, “I admit, I may have overreacted a bit. It wasn’t your fault that you got shot with an arrow.”

  
“No,” Bull hums his agreement, “But you were trying to help and I shrugged it off. I apologize for that.”  
Dorian blinks over at the larger man, the apology clearly catching him off-guard. It’s not often anyone has apologized to him in his life, really, people more likely to walk all over him, use him, ignore him. Other men have done much worse than make Dorian worry, without so much as a backwards glance. With the Inquisition, Dorian finds himself putting his foot in his own mouth more often than not, scrambling to apologize after he realizes his mistake.

  
“I…” Dorian could feel a strange tightness in his chest again, entirely different than the previous feeling. This one was warm, yet constricting, and he has to look away. Gently, Bull scratches his fingers into the sheared patch of Dorian’s hair, calming Dorian, “Thank you.”

  
“Here,” Bull extended his hand, offering up a hunk of dried druffalo smeared in a thick red jam. The sharp smells of chilies and ginger and herbs fill the air, mixed with a heavy dose of sugar. It makes Dorian’s mouth water, and he reaches out for the food being handed to him.

  
“Chili jam?” Dorian questioned, not having seen such a treat since he was a young boy in Qarinus.

  
“Didn’t know if you’d recognize it,” Bull admits, smearing a healthy dose on his own hunk of cheese.

  
“Mm,” Dorian hummed happily, partly in agreement and partly because of the taste that burst across his tongue. It’s sweet and warm, with a hint of a kick to it, and made the dry, old jerky he’d been eating for the majority of their trips taste splendid, “You made this?”

  
Bull shook his head, smiling warmly as Dorian took another hungry bite, “Not this time. Josephine ordered it for me. Figured it’d make the food a bit more bearable.”

  
Dorian nodded enthusiastically, “Quite.”

  
They ate in content silence, Bull dishing out more of the jam for Dorian. He chuckled at the mage when Dorian swiped a finger into the jar, licking a gob off of his finger, pleased that Dorian was at ease with him.

  
“When you were hurt…” Dorian began suddenly, staring ahead instead of looking over at the Bull. The other man waited patiently, stilling as he noted Dorian’s eyes were glossy, “I was just so … _afraid_. One moment, you were laughing. The next, you weren’t, and I was about to yell at you about your knee again… By the way, how are you feeling?”

  
“I’m fine, really,” Bull places his hand on Dorian’s shoulder, the mage not flinching away despite the stickiness of Bull’s fingers, “Boss helped me patch up. Knee feels a lot better.”

  
“And you aren’t just saying that so I don’t shout at you again?” Dorian questions, crossing his arms, and Bull can’t help but chuckle at the way he reminds him of a doting Tama.

  
“Nah. Besides, I thought you might be up for the earlier suggestion now that we’re back at camp.”

  
Dorian’s blush returns at the suggestion, though his eyes go wonderfully dark and lidded this time, “Oh, I suppose.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets some bad news and drinks to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS is the chapter I've been sitting on for awhile. I dunno if it feels like the rest of the fic, and it's a longer chapter compared to the others. Hope you enjoy!

The Inquisitor hurried into the tavern in the middle of the evening, looking stressed and concerned. Bull was drinking happily with Blackwall and Sera, until his eyes fell on his boss. When their eyes met, Bull knew that something was wrong, and his heart clenched with fear, mind flashing to something happening to Dorian. He tensed as they crossed the room in a few long strides, stopping next to their table. They shot the others anxious glances, opening their mouth to speak and then shutting it again.

  
“Yeah, Boss?” Bull asked, the edge of anticipation of bad news in his tone. His mind filled with worries, though he doubted its anything life-threatening by the way the Herald is acting - like there’s time to spare, like their concerned with revealing too much around the others. He wondered if Dorian received another letter from his father, knowing that the few he received since his father returned to Tevinter had set him on edge each time, or if Dorian had run-in with some of the soldiers who spread rumors about the mage corrupting the Inquisition from the inside out, or—

  
“Dorian could probably use some company right now. He received some bad news earlier, and has been causing a ruckus in the library ever since…”

  
“A ruckus?”

  
The Inquisitor shrugged, a nervous smirk on their lips, “More books thrown down to Solas’ room, more screaming matches with the crows. When I spoke with him earlier, he seemed sad but he’s all but chased everyone out of the library at this point.”

  
“You sure know how to pick ‘em, Bull!” Sera laughed, though Bull knew there was a slight crease of worry on her brow.

  
“Yeah, yeah,” Bull downed the last of his ale before standing up slowly, “Don’t suppose I’ll be back tonight. Drink a few more for me.”

  
“Good luck with that one,” Blackwall raised his flask to the Bull as the qunari put a handful of coin on the table to cover his drinks. Bull followed the Inquisitor out of the tavern and across the courtyard.

  
“This bad news,” Bull pressed, both to settle his nerves and to know what he was getting into. The mage took a particular kind of finesse to deal with when he was in foul moods.

  
“Felix is dead,” the Inquisitor stated simply, which was enough. A frown pulled at Bull’s features as he recalled the sickly man in Redcliff, trying to make a stand against his father. Dorian always spoke highly of the man, claimed the world would be better if more men were like Felix, and was adamant about what a good person Felix was while demeaning himself in the same breath. There’d been stories of Felix sneaking into the library in the Alexius Manson to give Dorian a cold plate of food when he’d been up studying well past dinner without stopping to eat, of the pair of them sneaking into the city to explore the seedier parts while the Magister was away.   
“Shit,” Bull shook his head slowly, knowing how much Dorian had to be hurting.

  
When they reached the library, Dorian’s alcove was worryingly empty. The candle was still warm, recently blown out. A few books lay scattered, lacking the usual finesse and care in which Dorian treated the tomes tucked around his chair. Careful not to knock over the teetering piles of books and empty glasses, Bull quickly examined Dorian’s nesting spot. Within moments, his eye landed on a few empty bottles, and Bull wondered how full they had been this morning. He’d noticed that Dorian sometimes lacked the restraint to know when to stop in an array of situations, drinking being one of them. After Dorian’s encounter with his father, the man had been on a binge for a number of days, and hungover for a number of days after that.

  
“Explains a lot,” Bull nodded towards an empty wine bottle, “Probably should find him before he breaks his neck on a set of stairs.”

  
They sprinted to his room first, finding it dark and empty. There was no warmth in the room, the bed still made, the fireplace untouched. The Inquisitor bit at a nail as they worried, eyes flickering around the empty room.

  
“Let’s split up. One of us is bound to find him,” Bull decided, shutting the door. He mentally went through all the haunts he usually found the man when he seemed to be missing — the gardens, the kitchen, the half-ruined bedrooms tucked deep into the castle, the battlements. The list seemed endless, and he let out a long sigh, knowing that most of these places could prove problematic for the drunken mage to be wandering through.

  
“I’ll start with the gardens,” the Herald stated, having obviously been doing the same mental list, “Then speak with Cullen — noticed he’s stopped by his room more than once when he couldn’t sleep.”

  
Bull grunted slightly, the thought flaring an unfamiliar feeling in his chest for a brief moment. He wished that Dorian would stop by his room and his room only when he couldn’t sleep, and shook his mind free of that thought. He knew he had no claim on Dorian, especially since the man was still filtering between staying in Bull’s bed for days at a time and then suddenly leaving in the middle of the night again. At the same time, he was relieved that Dorian had people to go to, people to keep an eye on him when thinks went sour. Quickly, he shook the feeling from his limbs, focusing again on Dorian’s whereabouts.

  
“Right, let’s go.”

  
Hurriedly, Bull checked the kitchens and then doubled back to his own room, in case the slippery ‘Vint somehow made it back to his bed when he wasn’t looking. It’d happened before, Bull returning from a trek or heading upstairs after drinking and finding Dorian in his bed. Neither place provided results. Panic beginning to grow, imagining  Dorian toppling off the battlements after he had multiple bottles of wine, made the Bull storm through the fortress.

  
“If you’re looking for the Necromancer,” Vivienne’s voice suddenly carried from above as Bull hurried back into the Great Hall, preparing to scour every inch of it until the mage was in his arms, “I saw him not half an hour past.”

  
“Ma’am?” Bull called up to her spot on the balcony.  

  
Madame de Fer stood next to the railing without her usual headdress, wearing a lose-fitting dress in white and gold. She spoke evenly, voice holding that usual air of indifference, and it carried down without having to raise her voice. Even in her nightware, the pursed lips, the commanding way she held herself, painted her an image of power, someone to think twice about crossing.

  
“Dorian stumbled into my quarters, trying to swindle a bottle of my finest wine from me. I’m afraid he wasn’t in a state to even enjoy such a vintage, and he disappeared surprisingly quickly for someone so drunk. Though, I have reason to suspect he had his eye on the Herald’s collection of spirits in the cellar,” she explained, and even with that usual haughtiness to her voice, a sliver of worry for the mage was somehow evident, “Do be sure to find him. I would hate to have to be roped in to traveling to the Fallow Mire or somewhere equally ghastly if he were to be incapacitated.”  

  
“Right, ma’am. Thanks, ma’am,” Bull answered, thinking of all the stairs that Dorian had to descend — all the stairs Dorian could fall down — to get to the level that held the dungeons and cellars. Then, he wondered how many people were searching for the mage, with the Inquisitor going to speak with Cullen and Madame de Fer almost admitting she was worried for the mans’ well-being.

  
Bull had rarely been in this part of the castle, only on a few occasions when he assisting in dragging someone to the dungeons. It was a network of tunnels and branching hallways, of closed doors and ancient artwork. The first dozen doors he opened were storage rooms, holding the array of gifts that the Inquisition was accumulating, stockpiles of rusted antique armor, mountains of fresh linens. It seemed like a lost cause, and he thought glumly that he should have fetched the Herald before taking on this task all on his own.

  
Finally, he threw one door open to reveal rows of half-filled shelves. He recognized a few bottles from digging through rubble with the Herald, from sharing sips with whatever party had found the dusty bottles. Bull moved carefully among the shelves, sure not to knock down the delicate glass. The smell of alcohol filled the room, and he was sure he found the right spot.

  
“Dorian?”

  
The answering sound was clinking of glass and a shuffling of clothing. Bull peered around one of the shelves, eye focusing in the dark, to spot the mage sprawled out against one of the walls. There was a broken bottle beside him and another half-drank bottle of something piss-colored. His eyelids were heavy, though he looked to be fighting the drunken sleep that pulled at him. A few of his buckles were undone, the robes slipping farther away from his bare shoulder as he shifted. His hair was especially wild, from fretful hands running through it, and his mustache was drooping. The mage was a drunken, sad sight at this point, yet Bull breathed a long sigh of relief.

  
“Dorian,” he said again, approaching the man.

  
“Can you believe…” Dorian paused to glare at the drink in his hand, examining the bottle in his hand, “Can you believe that the Inquisitor insists we dig out each one of these Maker-forsaken bottles when we travel with them?”

  
The Bull shrugged, “Everyone’s gotta have something to keep them busy.”

  
“That so?”

  
“Yeah, jus’ like you like to forget to eat when you read for days straight and like to drink yourself stupid.”

  
“And what, pray tell, keeps you busy?”

  
“You keep my hands pretty full,” and there’s the slight wink, the smirk pulling at those scarred lips, as Bull takes a few more steps closer. Dorian only snorts, less prepared for a volley of quips than he believed. Silence hangs in the air for a minute, before Bull shifts and kneels before the mage. His knee pops audibly as he lowers himself to the ground, but he ignores it in favor of focusing his eye on Dorian’s face, whose expression has shifted into one of guilt.

  
“I … suppose our lovely Herald gave you a clue to what happened,” Dorian looked down at his hands again, “I had so hoped to be able to drink the entire contents of this room before you caught wind.”

  
Bull snorted, shook his head, “What am I gonna do with you?”

  
Dorian looked up at the man as he reached out his large hand to cup Dorian’s cheek. Kindness and softness showed on the Bull’s face, and Dorian’s mouth fell open slightly as he realized, for the millionth time, how handsome the Bull truly was.

  
“I am sorry about your friend,” Bull murmured gently, thumb rubbing at his jawline.

  
“Ah, well…” Dorian cleared his throat, lowering his eyes once more, before going to raise the bottle to his lips again. Bull’s hand moved to still the bottle, a look of disappointment flashing across Dorian’s face.

  
“Enough of that,” Bull said, not exactly an order, but with enough firmness and enough care that Dorian listened, let him pull the bottle from his fingers.

  
“He was a good man, Bull,” Dorian blurted out, eyes suddenly wet. He’d cried enough for a lifetime, and wished he could somehow avoid these tears. Bull nodded as the mage spoke, knowing he needed to let it all out right now. Tears streamed across Dorian’s face as his spoke, voice hiccuping and wavering, “He stood up for me, stood up against all the shit that our homeland thought was passable. Despite knowing he would die before long, he held his head up proudly and spoke before the Magisterium on the Inquisitor’s behalf… And let me tell you, that surely was not an easy task. He was good, better than many men I know. And no one will know because he was a Tevinter and a Venatori general’s son. And now he’s just dead.”

  
“You know, and that’s something” Bull murmured, “From what you said, I think he thought you were a good man, too. If he treated you well, I think highly of his as well.”  
Dorian blinked at him, in a stupor and not quite sure he wanted to think too much about Bull’s comments. It made butterflies swell in his stomach, which wasn’t a particularly welcome sensation at this point. The feeling made him groan slightly, pale as he worried he was going to spew all over his lover.

  
“C’mon, ‘Vint, let’s get you to bed,” Bull leaned in to place a gentle kiss on Dorian’s forehead, and the mage let his eyelids flutter shut as he focused on breathing to keep the swimming in his stomach and head at bay.

  
Without much complaining, only a slight grumble from Dorian, Bull lifted him up in his arms. The larger man moved carefully, trying not to upset Dorian’s weak stomach even more by being carried roughly. Dorian curled in on himself, tucking into Bull’s warm chest.

  
“Bull?” Dorian asked quietly.

  
“Uh huh?”

  
“I appreciate you looking out for me.”

  
“Glad you’re letting me, for once.”

  
Bull took the back passageways up to his room, hoping to avoid as many stray soldiers and staff as possible. Dorian drifted in and out of sleep as they moved, and Bull knew he would be embarrassed in the morning if anyone caught him carrying a strung-out Dorian around Skyhold. He thought he should inform the Herald that Dorian was found, not quite alright but fixable with time, and made a note to let a scout know once he had Dorian safely in his bed. 

  
Bull was across the room when Dorian let out his first groan around noon the next day. The man had been in a dead sleep since he wrapped him in the thick blankets Bull now kept on his bed for nights when the ‘Vint visited. He lifted his gaze from the reports on his desk and turned towards Dorian, who was sprawled out in the nude on his stomach. The night had left Bull awake, waiting patiently, too worried about his lover to let himself sleep. Though Bull suspected the initial surge of emotions about Felix’s death were over, he knew it was difficult to lose people you cared about, to lose good people, and knew it would be bumpy road until Dorian dealt with the loss of one of few he had considered friends in Tevinter.

  
Another groan cut through the silence, Dorian burying his face further into the bed. Light was streaming in the hole in the roof now, falling across Dorian’s muscular back. It was sure to irritate the man, and Bull cursed himself for not getting it fixed the first dozen times Dorian had told him to.

  
“Bull?” Dorian asked groggily, voice muffled by the mattress.

  
“I’m here,” the qunari answered, standing up and crossing the room to lay a gentle hand on Dorian’s back.

  
“Kaffas, my head,” Dorian groaned, hands moving to grab at his hair.

  
“Yeah, I figured. Brought you one of Stitches’—”

  
“I am _not_ drinking anything that man made, especially after that last time,” Dorian said sternly, then winced at the sound of his voice.

  
“Also got a few elfroot potions,” Bull added, having suspected the man to make a fuss about Stitches concoctions, but he still insisted they were the best remedy for a hangover.  
With some help from Bull, Dorian sat up in bed, wincing away from the daylight falling across the bed. He greedily drank a potion, it taking the edge of his headache almost immediately. Breathing out a long puff of air, he eyed the Bull nervously.

  
“How drunk was I last night?”

  
“Hm, drunk enough to let me carry you across Skyhold.”

  
“ _Venhedis_! No one saw, correct?”

  
“Weeelll…”

  
“Bull!”

  
“Nah, I knew you’d get your silken panties in a twist if anyone saw. Was pretty late by the time I found you, anyways. Had me a bit worried, ‘Vint.” Gently, mindful of Dorian’s aching head, he ran fingers through Dorian’s slightly knotted hair. It was greasy from whatever products Dorian used being kept in his hair for too-long, and stuck up at the angles Bull worked them into. He smiled down at the man.

  
“Did I vomit on you?”

  
Bull shook his head, “Just on the floor. Once.”

  
“Brilliant.”

  
“Remind me to tell our Herald to put a lock on that liquor cellar of theirs.”

  
Dorian only moaned, dropping his head into his hands. It was filled with memories of drinking in the alcove, of swearing at any passerby who was unfortunate enough to look his way, of cursing at Lelianna’s crows. He dimly remembered stumbling out of the library, getting himself turned around on the battlements in an effort to find the tavern, and instead making his way to Vivienne’s balcony. After that, everything went black. The pain of Felix’s death still thumped in his veins, raw and fresh and painful, but he felt less angry at the world about it, less angry at _himself_ about it, somehow. He suspected Bull had something to do with that. After another stretch of time, the Bull moved away and crossed the room. At the sound of something being placed over the fire, Dorian peaked out from behind his fingers. He could see the Bull moving in front of the fire, stepping away after putting something above the heat. He sighed, dropping back on the pillows and staring up at the broken rafters, thinking dreamily about laughing with Felix in Alexius’ garden as young boys, of growing older and clasping hands over their mouths as they broke into peels of laughter in the study while the rest of the house was asleep.

  
The smell of strong coffee hit is nose all at once, pulling him from his bittersweet thoughts completely. He pushed himself back up, his vision swaying for a moment at the effort, and tried to focus on whatever Bull was doing across the room. He heard mugs slide against the wooden dresser, the drip of coffee filtering through a steep, and sighed happily at the smell. He wished they could drink _real_ coffee more often, not that half-assed muck they took with them on journeys across Thedas, or the diluted stuff they served in the kitchens. This, this smelled life fine Antivian coffee, dark and rich and sobering.

  
Bull turned with two steaming cups in his hands after much gleeful anticipation on Dorian’s part. He crossed the room in a few long strides, and carefully settled beside Dorian on the bed, sure not to spill a drop on the mage’s bare skin. Inhaling deeply, Dorian’s body tingled with warmth, from the aromas and the hot mug and the Bull pressed against his side. He took a slow drink of the too-hot liquid, the distantly familiar tastes of cinnamon, cardamom, and coriander swirling on his tongue with the rich coffee. It’s a bit of a kick, not entirely _spicy_ , but enough to send another wave of warmth through Dorian. He took another long, slow drink before he flickered his eyes towards Bull, looking away again quickly.

  
“I…” Dorian cleared his throat, trying to clear his head and think of the right words to say, “Thank you.”

  
Bull hummed in reply, taking a long drink from his own mug.

  
It felt important to say, so Dorian said it: “You’re a good man, Bull.”

  
“So are you, Dorian,” Bull nodded, leaning down to press a kiss against Dorian’s cheek.


	12. Terms of Endearment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adamant is rough on everyone, and Bull makes a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I never titled the last two chpaters. Oops.  
> I also realized this hadn't been updated in nearly two months, and I apologize! The next chapter is mostly done, too, just needs some continuity editing.

When they tumbled out of the Fade again, the battle was still raging around them. Dorian frantically scanned the people gathered, readying his staff in case he needs to jump into the fray. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength, though, his body running of fumes after the onslaught of fears and the final battle with the demon. Something that felt like the remnants of one of his Horror spells flickers and stutters in the back of his mind, making everything seem too raw and too real and too awful. The others around him were in the same position, Sera trembling slightly next to him and Cassandra wiping furiously at a bleeding head wound. Dorian reached out a hand to steady the elf, who was now muttering about the Nothing. He was sure a strong gust of wind would send them both toppling over.

  
The battle stilled, attention snapping to the Inquisitor and their outstretched hand. Everything was basked in the strange green light of the rift, the demons hissing and reduced to nothing, and a cheer rose up. It’s too loud with the thudding in his head, making Dorian flinch away from the soldiers raising their swords in a show of solidarity towards the Inquisition.

  
Instead, Dorian looked away before he got sick, focused on the distant sky and craggy mountains and fading sunlight. Dorian could still hear fighting in the distant, wondered if Bull was near, nerves frayed after the Fade and he wasn’t sure that he could push much farther without Bull. Even the thought of the man steadied him somewhat, a pillar of strength and warmth and safety. For a terrible moment, he wondered if Bull made it through this battle, before doing everything to push that thought away, telling himself if he could survive _physically_ being in the Fade, the Bull better well have survived a skirmish with demons.

  
The Herald exchanged a few words with Stroud, speaking of Hawke’s sacrifice in the Fade, as the battle in the distance faded away. Dorian was in a haze as scouts and Wardens hurried forth to speak with the Inquisitor, and he was in hazy disbelief that the Herald had managed to stay standing and give a rousing speech after all they’ve been through. They were all spotted in blood and wounds, and Dorian suspected they need some medical attention promptly. He had his arm slung around Sera’s waist by this point, keeping the shaking elf upright, occasionally murmuring comforts to her. Dorian could feel the strength draining from him steadily as well, pain and weariness settling into his bones as the adrenaline wore off slowly.

  
“I’ve got her,” Cullen finally said, breaking through Dorian’s fog. Their Commander hurried forth to assist them in relocating to the tents set up beyond the fortress. Dorian nodded his thanks, almost sorry for the loss of the warmth and comfort of another body, and he began to scan those around him again as he followed the others. His vision wouldn’t focus like it should, and faces start to blur together, spots in front of his eyes, and he blinked viciously against it.

  
“Hothouse!” a voice called out, starling Dorian slightly, and he tripped over himself. Gentle hands kept him upright, and Dorian realized slowly that it was Dalish who called out to him, “The Chief’s going to be so relieved. Been worried ever since we lost you all to the dragon… We all thought…”

  
Dorian nodded, understanding. The worry over whether or not Bull had made it through the battle and the dragon and the blood magic in one piece kept gnawing at him, and seeing a familiar face now washed out from the horrors of the Fade was reassuring.

  
“Where is he?”

  
“Probably trying to finish off the last of whatever is left out there. I’ll go find him,” Dalish assured, suddenly gone again and leaving Dorian stumbling after the others. The worry about how the Bull might have reacted to thinking Dorian was gone rears it’s head now, causing a shudder to trill down his spine at the image of Bull’s eye gone dark and hot with bloodlust and madness. He’d seen it a few times now, for a brief moment when he or one of the others had been hurt in battle, the Bull nearly losing himself in his desperate need to keep them safe.

  
“Are you alright, Dorian?” Cassandra asked, and Dorian decided it’s rather ironic for her to ask when she was the one with a oozing head wound.

  
“Fine, fine, don’t worry about me,” Dorian said, his eyes still searching the crowd for the Bull instead of focusing on getting to the infirmary like he should. He stumbled over some ruined stone from the battlement and nearly tripped on the crumpled body of a soldier, which sent him reeling back in surprise. Ever if he was well-versed in death and Necromancy, it was still startling to see a vaguely recognizable face staring up with empty, dead eyes. He can’t find a name, but he remembered the woman laughing in the dinning hall and smashing shields with other soldiers. Echoes of the Fade reverberated through him, remembering blood magic and the eyes of dead slaves, hearing their distorted voices the demon had created to haunt him. A shaking hand rose to his hair, gripping the strands tightly as he gaped down at the dead soldier.

  
“Come, Dorian. The Bull will find you,” Cassandra reassured, taking Dorian by the arm and guiding him onward.

 

\---

  
  
Dorian milled around, waiting to be treated for some time. He didn’t sustain any wounds as serious as some of the others, insisting the others in more need be tended to first, and he passed time trying to calm down Sera. She filtered between grumbling between to herself and pulling her hair, and staring blankly at Dorian as he tried to talk her through it. The fears were still rattling around his brain, too, remembering the laughter after Dorian tried to brush off the demon’s remark about his striking resemblance to his father. He _knew_ it was just playing him, picking at his weakness and saying whatever it could to hurt him, but he couldn’t deny how much alike he and his father seemed to be. Same jawline, same eyes, same _pride_. When a shudder wracked his body, Sera looked up at him with concern, falling silent for a moment. With a shake of her head, she guilty realized she’d been overlooking the fact that Dorian had to deal with all the Fade crap, too.

  
“You aren’t him, yeah?” Sera insisted, having head the laughter echo through her mind as well.

  
“I know,” Dorian said simply, patting her cheek gently. It was a kind gesture, to try to reassure him like this, but it doesn’t ease much of the tension in his shoulders or the edge of panic in his mind.

  
“Dorian?” a familiar booming voice called from across the camp. Dorian spun, mind going abruptly blank of everything except Bull, needing Bull’s strong arms around him, needing to know that Bull was okay, which would mean that he was okay, too.

  
“Bull?” Dorian answered, frozen in place for a moment until he spotted Bull moving quickly through the tents to get to him. Then, he hurried forward, meeting Bull halfway. Relieved laugher spilled from Dorian as Bull swept him up into his arms, pulling him tightly against his chest. Dorian couldn’t help the feelings bubbling over, deciding to leave feeling foolish for another time, because Bull was _there_ and _safe_ (even if there were a number of fresh wound scattered across his silver skin) and that meant Dorian was safe in his arms, too. At some point, Dorian’s laughter turned to rough sobs, and Bull pressed kisses against his face and neck, murmuring gently to him.

  
“Dorian, I’ve got you,” Bull muttered against his skin, pressing kisses to his forehead, kissing away the tears, “I was so fuckin’ scared — I though — but you’re here now, and I’ve got you.”

  
“Bull,” Dorian sobbed into his shoulder, knees buckling, but Bull was holding him so securely, there was no way he could fall.

  
“I’ve got Sera,” Blackwall’s gruff voice suddenly said, and Dorian still had enough sense to wonder when the man had shown up.

  
“Thanks,” Bull said, scooping Dorian up and moving towards a tent that someone had said was his. The mage didn’t object to being carried across the camp, and he quickly turned into Bull’s chest, the steady warmth and thump of a pulse beneath his ear finally making some of the lingering panic break away.

 

\---

  
  
“Dorian, we should go eat,” Bull said gently, knuckles stroking against Dorian’s back. The mage was curled on his side on his bedroll, in the strange in-between world between awake and asleep. He hasn’t slept since the night before he fell into the Fade, and he hasn’t eaten, either. It’s concerning to the Bull, seeing him like this, the old fears he’d been working through fresh and raw again.

  
“I’m not hungry,” grumbled Dorian simply, not looking Bull’s way and instead tucking the blanket tucked in his grip closer to his chest.

  
Bull sighed, a long breath of air that ruffled Dorian’s hair, “You gotta eat something or you’ll pass out on me. You need the sleep, but that’s not the way to get it.”

  
Dorian snorted slightly, “I don’t want to set foot in the Fade again right now.”

  
“Right.”

  
Bull’s torn about the situation. On one hand, he wished he could have taken Dorian’s place, saved him from being haunted by his father and blood magic and cruel men again. On the other, he’s pretty sure Dorian’s digesting all this Fade shit better than he would, and coping isn’t Dorian’s strong suit. With a grunt, he settled down on the ground completely, resigned to the fact that Dorian’s not going anywhere tonight.

  
“Here, at least eat one of these,” Bull nudged Dorian before moving his hand into Dorian’s eyesight. It’s a piece of unwrapped candy, honey with flecks of red spice within it. Dorian sat up slowly, and Bull smiled at that accomplishment. He plucked the piece from Bull’s hand, popping it into his mouth and rolling it around his tongue. It’s all sweet at first, the rich sticky taste of honey.

  
“Wherever did you get these?” Dorian asked, recognizing them as something from home. Honey candies, which were often infused with various spices or herbs. The hint of spice cut across his tongue and he made a happy noise.

  
“Val Royeaux. Seen them in the markets up north before, took a gamble you might like them,” Bull shrugged easily, but there’s a fond smile on his face, “You get so caught up in these missions sometimes, I thought we’d have a treat for the return trip. S’not as good as you getting off your ass and eating a real meal, but it’s something.”

  
Dorian hummed happily, moving the candy across his tongue to help it melt, sparks of heat jolting across his tongue when another piece of spice was revealed.

  
“You gonna be alright?” Bull asked after a long, comfortable silence.

  
Dorian glanced up at him, nodding, “Certainly. It’s just … a lot to stomach right now. Another Magister in the Fade?”

  
“Altus,” Bull corrected, and Dorian waved at him dismissively, thought a smile tugged at his lips.

  
“It might give people ideas, too. It’s messy business. No one’s walked in the Fade in ages,” Dorian pressed his fingers to his lips in thought, “It should have been Solas.”

  
“Yeah, bet his crazy ass would have been the happiest he’s ever been,” Bull rumbled in agreement, making Dorian chuckled slightly. He handed over another candy to Dorian. It’s silent as the suck on the candies, Bull studying Dorian’s bright eyes, the gentle smile that pulls on his lips when his eyes meeting Bull’s, the soft purr he’s making as the pleasantness of the candy.

  
“Dorian…” Bull started, before trailing off. He was gazing intently at Dorian, voice thick.

  
“Yes?”

  
“Dorian, I was scared that you wouldn’t come back,” Bull muttered, gaze dropping briefly to skitter across Dorian’s chest and shulders. It’s not that he has trouble admitting he gets scared sometimes, but he knew that this was a confession of how much he needed Dorian, how much he cared for him. The battle was a bit of a blur of blood and anger and fear. He’d seen the dragon crash into the walkway, seen the faraway figures run and fall and disappear, and something in him had come lose. He was lucky his boys were on the mission, too, or else it might have gone way south with no return.

  
Dorian’s eyes meet Bull’s one, and Dorian could tell they’re on the verge of something big, something that’s sticking in the Bull’s throat. Normally, it all seems so easy for he other man, murmurs of fondness and affection, stolen kisses in the tavern and soft caresses in the night.

  
“Dorian, I was so scared I was going to lose you.”

  
In a swift movement, Dorian hurried forward to plant himself in Bull’s lap. For a moment, Bull’s surprised by the movement, Dorian usually grousing about being pulled into his lap even when they’re alone. Warmth was swelling in Bull’s chest, the feeling of being alive and electric as Dorian pressed against him. Their lips meet, a slow and steady kiss, not their usually hungry meeting of mouths. The taste of honey and peppers passes between their lips, Bull humming approvingly. Dorian always seemed to taste a bit sweet and a bit spicy, and this is like that familiar, comforting taste, only magnified.

  
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me,” Dorian purred against Bull’s neck, before leaning back to look at Bull, “Amatus.”

  
Bull’s breath caught for a moment, eye widening slightly. The smile that Dorian’s giving him was glorious, a gift in its own. Then, there’s the word. Bull’s not sure he knows the exact translation, but it’s something he heard a wife whisper to her husband before planting a goodbye kiss on their cheek, something passed between young lovers with their hands clasped and eyes for no one but each other. Bull grinned, huge and wide and content, at the man in his arms, and everything felt right in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized this is one of the few times Solas is even mentioned in my fics. OOPS. 
> 
> Also, I felt like this chapter is a little rocky, but I wanted Bull to make a confession about his feelings because I feel like Dorian's made confessions of them in the last two, and it was Bull's turn! But also, I usually have Bull being the one to say Kadan first, but I thought Dorian might say Amatus before Bull?


	13. A Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Long time no see, huh? I've had this chapter sitting around for a bit, and someone nudged me about this fic, so I looked it over and decided to post. It's a simple, short chapter. It's not beta-ed, like most of this fic, but I plan on betaing any future chapters before posting. Hopefully I'll be back in the groove of writing again soon.

Bull quickly took notice of Krem’s lengthy absence from the training grounds and the tavern. It was suspicious, his lieutenant rarely found elsewhere. The corner of the tavern, perched on the back of his chair, was the best spot to drink wine straight from the bottle while keeping an eye out for Scout Harding’s return. Today, the spot was empty. The man had even hurried somewhere after training, instead of sticking around and sparring with Cullen’s men like he often did. Dorian’s absence would normally be less obvious, since the mage was often found in the library at this time of the day, but Bull was to depart the next morning with the Inquisitor. The last time Dorian was to leave without the Bull in the party, their evening was spent in Bull’s bed. When Krem finally strolled into the bar close to dinner time, Bull eyed him carefully.

  
“Busy day?” Bull questioned, smiling knowingly.

  
Krem grunted, having realized it would be near impossible to keep anything from the former-spy, “Yup.”

  
With his own grunt, Bull narrowed his eye to examine Krem. He glanced over him, studying his clothing closely. A smile flickered across his face when he noticed a smudge of flour on the hem of the man’s tunic, but kept the tidbit to himself.

  
“Haven’t seen Dorian, have you?” Bull’s grin grew wider at Krem’s annoyed expression.

  
“Nope,” he said unconvincingly as the barmaid brought a bottle over to him without needing to be asked.

  
Bull chuckled slightly, shaking his head at Krem’s loyalty to Dorian. It was refreshing that the pair no longer seemed on tense and unsure terms, Krem refraining from referring to Dorian as ‘the Altus’ and instead taking up the term ‘the hothouse orchid’ after Josephine teasingly used it as an endearment. Dorian had grumbled about them all, insisting he was preparing to send an angry letter to _dear Maevaris_ to express his _thanks_ for her concern. Dorian didn’t seem to take Krem’s jabs as personally anymore, instead rolling his eyes and even chuckling at Krem’s jests about Dorian being a spoiled brat.

  
The other Chargers came and went from their usual table, while Bull and Krem sat around, occasionally trading comments, as the tavern began to grow busy for dinner. Bull kept his eye trained on the door, happily expecting a certain someone, and starting to grow impatient as it grew steadily later. The sun was beginning to set when Dorian finally made his entrance, dressed in jet black robes, gold threads laced into the edges of the cloth, gold earrings in his nose and ears, gold rings on his fingers. He glittered and glowed in the candlelight of the tavern, dark skin smooth and unblemished, hair arranged just so. Bull smiled softly, enjoying how prettily Dorian was done up, hoping it had something to do with him. Dorian sat down beside Krem, though he didn’t settle back into the chair.

  
“Handsome,” Bull growled before he took a long drink, watching Dorian over the brim of his mug.

  
Dorian blushed promptly, crossing his arms and glancing away. He remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout the evening, only occasionally responding to the Bull’s witticisms with more than a glare. Even when they retired to Bull’s bedroom for the evening, the inevitable goodbyes in the morning before Bull’s excursion with the Inquisitor weighing on both of their minds, Dorian spoke little, instead pressing desperate, lingering kisses to Bull’s lips, to Bull’s body, sighing and groaning under Bull’s hands and mouth. It wasn’t until much later, when they both were spent and tangled in the bed, that Dorian worked up the nerve to speak more fully.

  
“Bull,” Dorian breathed against the other man’s chest after a long stretch of silence. The qunari had begun to think he had fallen asleep.

  
“Mm?”

  
“I almost wish I was coming along,” Dorian admitted quietly, fingers digging into Bull’s side as the words spilled from his lips.

  
“Almost?”

  
“Well,” he chucked quietly, “The thought of endless wilderness and giants isn’t particularly appealing… But…”

  
Bull waited, pulling Dorian closer against his side in the process. He understood, knowing he was going to miss the man when he was gone for weeks, beginning to know that Dorian felt the same way. After a time, Dorian pulled away to hop up out of bed and cross the room. The Bull watched him closely, watched the dark skin already begin to shiver without the heat of Bull’s body and the warm bed they shared on most nights, trailed his eyes down to examine every inch that was available to him and soak it in for while he was away. With a little hesitation, Dorian pulled open a drawer — for all intents and purposes, Dorian’s drawer in Bull’s dresser — and pulled out a large tin. It was fairly simple, the designs distinctly Fereldan, a dragon in Fereldan’s style hammered into the center of the lid. He stilled for a moment, looking down at the container in his hands, before turning back towards the Iron Bull.

  
“I made you something,” Dorian began to say, slowly crossing back towards Bull. He extended his gift to Bull before he settled back down, “For while you’re away.”

  
Bull held onto the tin tightly, looking down at it with a sappy grin plastered onto his face. His chest was full to bursting without even knowing what was inside it, because knowing that Dorian cared enough to go out of his way to make him something for his journey was prize enough. Even after months of whatever they had, Dorian tried his best to brush things off, to try to seem unaffected by most things.

  
“Well, go on then,” Dorian nudged him, sitting cross-legged at his side.

  
With a nod, Bull pulled the top off the tin. Inside was at least two dozen chocolate cookies, the smell of cocoa and chili wafting up to fill Bull’s nostrils. Dorian hadn’t thought it was possible, but his lover’s grin grew larger.

  
“The first batch were a disaster. I caught the oven on fire with my frustration at the second batch,” Dorian admitted, biting his lip nervously, “Had to get Krem’s help, because he mentioned baking with his mother once or twice. Thank the Maker for Krem or you would have received a tin full of charcoal.”

  
Bull chuckled, reaching down for one of the cookies. He took a bite, slowly chewing as sweet and spice hit his tongue, the cookies on the good right side of undercooked as gooey chocolate filled his mouth. He held out the other half to Dorian, who shook his head.

  
“They’re for you,” Dorian gave a small smile, “Besides, I’ve had enough while taste testing the things.”

  
Shrugging, Bull finished the last of the cookie and placed the lid back on the tin. He hurried across the room, placing the tin gently in his packed bag, before returning to Dorian. The man was still sitting up in bed, watching the Bull carefully, studying the smile that remained on his face, the lightness in his step. When Bull sank back into the bed, he pulled Dorian close to him, stealing his mouth in a gentle kiss. The mage hummed happily, the taste of Bull’s lips mixing with cocoa and chili, which was definitely worth all the trouble it took to make the treat.

**Author's Note:**

> I reside here:  
> http://thekingofcarrotflower.tumblr.com/


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